


Secure the Bag

by lordsanga



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: DRUGS that's a relevant tag sorry guys there's mild drug usage, Drug Dealer au, I'm going to stop tagging this now, M/M, There May Be Some Problematic Elements To This Narrative I Am Warning You Know, a less questionable knowledge of the tortorous life of a City Lawyer, a questionable knowledge of london's underground drug trade, do you guys know there's no grime rpf on ao3, eric is a soft boi, i'm drunk at the barbican at 9 pm don't expect coherent tagging, like everything else I write, shamless self indulgence, what a mistake let's request it for yuletide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2020-11-08 12:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20835110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordsanga/pseuds/lordsanga
Summary: “What's more important than a drink with my drug dealer?” Eric says, as they fall behind the others in their step. Dele pretends to stop, and gives Eric a little shocked face.“Is that all I am to you?” he says, nudging him. “I thought we were mates now.”“I’m not just a customer?” Eric says, feeling himself smile.“You’re my favourite customer,” Dele says, and he grins at Eric. “The highlight of my week is meeting you.”Or, an AU where Dele never met the Hickfords, and sells Eric some weed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awkwardsorta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsorta/gifts).

> Everything I write is always for my favourite person, my best girl, my beta, my bee, my co-conspirator, co-creator of this fic and co-author of all bits of it that are worth reading, tbh, [awkwardsorta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsorta/pseuds/awkwardsorta). Thanks for indulging me that time I first said, in December last year, HEY LET'S TALK ABOUT AN AU WHERE DELE IS A DRUG DEALER AND ALSO AJ TRACEY IS HIS EX BOYFRIEND. Babs I hope we never stop talking about and spinning off this verse if I'm honest.
> 
> The title is (natch) an AJ Tracey reference.

It’s one of those afternoons that drags on endlessly. Eric’s been in three conference calls already, spilled coffee over a contract his principal had asked him to review, and sent an email to the wrong distribution list, all before lunch. The hours towards six P.M. on a Friday evening are achingly distant, and Eric stares at the clock on his desktop moodily, ignoring the steady pings of his Outlook inbox.

The week has been littered with late nights at the office, coming back to a dark home with Harry already in bed, and microwaving M&S curries in the kitchen. Harry has invited the boys over tonight, though, for football and pizza, telling Eric he needed the break. Eric distracts himself from the fresh set of mark-ups that a partner just sent through by scrolling through his phone, pausing over one of the contacts and hovering his thumb over the name.

“ _ Can u do 6:30 today _ ,” he texts, after some consideration.

_ “sure,”  _ comes the reply, seconds later. His dealer is usually pretty obliging, which is making Eric develop a bit of an ill-advised weed habit, but it’s the weekend, and friends are over, and there’s five more emails requiring his urgent attention that have come through in the time he sent that text, so he needs it, really.

A managing associate stops by just as Eric is preparing to leave, midway through putting away his half-eaten bag of nuts into his snack drawer and tossing several crumpled sweet popcorn bags in the bin. He’s asked to send more emails, and by the time he steps out of the office, he is late. He rushes to the tube with phone in one hand, shooting apology texts, and juggles his gym bag and backpack clumsily with the other. He catches the Victoria line right before the doors shut, tumbling clumsily into the compartment and earning a dirty look from the woman opposite.

His dealer is already outside by the time he reaches his street. He’s lounging in his usual spot, leaning against a car and idly smoking a cigarette, looking bored as he scrolls through his phone. He looks annoyingly well put together; he always does, wearing tight black jeans with rips in them, and a hoodie that hangs off his tall, weedy frame like it’s tailored for him. Eric feels well aware of how sweaty he is from the tube and the jog towards his street, red when he stops in front of him, straightening his shirt and trying not to struggle for breath.

Dele gives him a once over, looking amused.

“Alright?” he says, and waves away Eric’s apologies for being late, reaching out his hand to do their handshake. It’s two claps of their hands together, before they clasp them and raise. It's a functional handshake, because at the end of it Eric has a crumpled baggie caught between his fingers.

“Cheers,” he says, deftly tucking it into his pocket and rummaging around for the cash.

“You didn’t drop it this time,” Dele replies, and he’s still got a smirk on his face. It’s an expression he always seems to have around Eric, like he’s permanently laughing at him.

“Oh, fuck off. That was one time.”

“At least two,” Dele grins, leaning back against the car behind him. “I’m impressed, you’re learning.”

“Thanks,” Eric says, drily. “I’ve been practicing so I can impress you.”

Dele looks at Eric like he’s checking if he’s joking, before he laughs. It’s a sound that always surprises Eric when it comes from Dele, usually closed off and intimidating; it’s silly and open and high pitched. Eric feels a twinge of satisfaction when he earns it and gives Dele a grin.

Dele offers Eric a cigarette. He’s like this every time Eric texts him to ask for a delivery, never transactional, never in a rush to leave when they’re done. Eric’s friends are waiting inside, but he nods, “go on then,” because Dele’s always easy company, irreverent and funny and bright-eyed, lighting up with his whole face whenever he takes the piss out of Eric, which is frequent. He asks Eric about his weekend, and Eric tells him about the day trip to Brighton and walking his sister’s dogs on the coast. Dele tells him about his, parties out in west London, and going to his ex’s gig in Hoxton.

“Your ex,” Eric says, and tries not to sound too interested. “Is she in a band?”

Dele gives Eric an expression like he’s said something weird and pulls out another cigarette. He pauses with it between his lips, before he says, “ _ he _ ,” pointedly, “isn’t in a band.” He looks up at Eric, defiant, and exhales smoke between his lips. “Ché’s a rapper.”

There’s a lot of information in that sentence for Eric to immediately process; his brain, however, stays stuck on the pronoun. Dele looks at him expectantly, and Eric has to scramble to avoid a questionable pause, saying the first thing that comes into his head.

“My ex in high school became a performer too,” he says, lamely. “Back in Portugal. I think he auditioned for Eurovision.”

It’s the clumsiest, stupidest way he could have shoehorned his sexuality in there, but mercifully, Dele doesn’t comment on it. He looks vaguely interested instead, leaning back and asking Eric about Portugal.

Eric feels on edge the rest of the conversation, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue. He pushes it back, absently following as Dele changes the topic, observing him as he talks. Eric asks him about his week, and Dele’s just running Eric through his plans for later, Fortnite and five a side, when Eric’s phone buzzes. It’s a text from Harry, asking if he’s dead.

“Shit,” Eric says, glancing at it. “It’s eight already?”

“I should get going,” Dele says, unrolling his body delicately off the car, and Eric feels momentarily disappointed. He lingers, replaying the ‘ _ he _ ’ back in his head and wondering if he should say something, but in the end, he just offers Dele a hug goodbye. Dele lingers in his step after, however, and he looks at Eric.

“Dier,” he says, “You’re decent at football, right?”

Eric shrugs. “I’m okay,” he says, “Why?”

“One of my mates dropped out for Sunday,” Dele says, casually. “Do you want to come?”

Eric feels his face breaking into a bigger grin than it needs to, and he restrains himself so his nod isn't too enthusiastic. “I could do that.”

“Cool,” Dele says, and steps back, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I’ll text you.”

Chris and Sonny are sprawled on his couch when he gets in, and Harry’s ordered the pizza already, the three of them engrossed with the game. Eric offers his apologies, dropping his laptop bag by the hallway and glancing at the screen where Hugo Lloris is looking morosely at Ricardo Pereira getting jumped on by his joyous teammates. “Are they already losing?” he asks, and Chris clicks his tongue. Eric drops the little baggie on Harry’s lap before swiping a slice of the pepperoni, and ignores Harry’s expression when he looks between him and the weed.

“Ah,” Harry says, knowingly. “So that’s where you were.”

It gets Chris and Sonny’s attention, and Chris asks if it was his drug dealer boyfriend.

“I’m not going to lie,” Harry says. “I think he’s started smoking twice as much these days.” He ducks when Eric swipes out to hit the back of his head and informs Eric he’ll give himself a drug problem with this crush.

“You know,” Eric grumbles, going into the kitchen to get himself a beer. “A ‘thank you’ would have done.”

“Why hasn’t he asked him out yet?” Chris says, conversationally, but interrupts his own thought to swear at the game, where Spurs’ back line just about manages a nervy clearance against Vardy.

“I’m right here, you know,” Eric objects.

“He might give us a discount if you sleep with him,” Sonny adds, and Eric rolls his eyes.

“Think Spurs need to really sort out their defensive midfield,” he says, tipping his bottle at the telly. “I am not selling my body so you lot can get cheaper drugs,” he adds, leaning back in his chair.

"You should at least spend some time with him when you’re not buying drugs from him,” Chris says, matter of fact, ignoring Eric when he points out that he never said he was interested. “He’s actually quite attractive.” 

“I do spend time with him,” Eric says, deliberately nonchalant. “Actually, we’re playing football this weekend.”

Eric doesn’t know what error of judgement had prompted him to share that information, but it makes his friends instantly annoying, turning away from the game and pressing him for details of this new development where he’s been asked out on a date.

“It’s not a date,” Eric says insistently. “I don’t even know if he’s single.” He bites his tongue about the new information on Dele’s sexuality; he doesn’t need his friends to be more insufferable about this.

“Please,” Harry says. “I don’t know many people who stand in the cold for half an hour chatting to someone they’re just selling drugs to.”

“He’s just a friendly guy,” Eric says, and Harry mimics him saying friendly, with huge, exaggerated air quotes. Sonny says his girlfriend is watching a Korean drama with the same plot, and Eric picks the little plastic Pizza stool off the box and tosses it at him.

“It’s not a date,” he repeats firmly. Mercifully, Lucas Moura picks that moment to equalise, distracting his mates enough to drop the topic.

Eric tells himself again it’s not a date, and spends Saturday not thinking about it, ignoring the vague feeling of excitement building up in him. He goes to the gym with Harry, and does a shop for his meal prep later. He spends Saturday afternoon lounging on the couch as Harry plays video games, lazily flipping through the copy of  _ Homo Deus  _ Jan had lent him _ . _ He skypes his parents in the evening, listening distractedly to them talk about the family friend’s engagement party they attended, the new recipe his mother had found for fish on the internet, and his father’s thoughts on the routing Sporting got at the hands of Porto in the league last night.

He reminds himself it’s not a date when he leaves, too, resisting the urge to change the top he’s picked out or adjust his hair. He regrets that the instant he spots Dele out on the park, though, standing in the sun by a small group of his mates. He looks good, too good for weekend five-a-side, dressed in all black and high socks and giving Eric an infectious grin when he spots him, squinting in the sun. He gives Eric a hug and introduces Eric to his friends: colleagues from the day job he didn’t know Dele had, colleagues at the JD Sports by Tottenham Hale.

Dele’s football is just like his chat; sharp and cheeky, and a constant surprise, getting the ball past the opposition players with a series of clever tricks and making a meal of it when he succeeds. They’re on the same team, but Dele doesn’t spare Eric either; he nutmegs him, twice, just because he can, and gives Eric his silly laugh each time, making it hard for him to look cross when he glances over at him. Eric manages to get his own back when he ‘accidentally’ rugby tackles Dele to the ground. It’s a gentle tackle, really, his hands soft on Dele, but it sends Dele down onto the mud with the force of Eric’s weight, and Dele grabs onto Eric’s shirt to pull him down too, laughing.

“You were looking too clean,” Eric explains, dodging Dele’s attempt to put a muddy hand on his face. “Nobody needs to look this good during five-a-side.” He catches what he says only a second later, but Dele’s already smirking at him, and Eric shakes his head, straightening himself up and reaching a hand out for Dele. Someone calls them twats for delaying the game before Dele can reply, and he settles for giving Eric a little wink as he jogs back in place.

They send up drawing the game, in part thanks to a lovely last-minute chip over the keeper from Dele, followed by a bizarre dance celebration that Eric is informed comes from Fortnite. Afterwards they sit around together on the grass, exhausted, and Dele sits close to Eric, their knees touching. One of Dele’s friends asks how he knows Eric, and Eric is momentarily tongue-tied. Dele, however, doesn’t miss a beat.

“It’s embarrassing,” Dele says, putting an arm around him, “We met on tinder.”

Eric feels himself getting hot instantly, and he gets even redder when Dele sees his expression and cracks up. “You’re very funny,” Eric mumbles so only Dele can hear, nudging Dele. Dele looks at him with a little cheeky grin, mischievous and satisfied, and Eric shakes his head, helplessly grinning too. “Well done.”

The sun’s long down when they all heave themselves up, starting to huddle up against the chill. Eric gathers that the boys are going to the local to catch the second half of the Arsenal game, and Dele asks if Eric will come.

“I was supposed to skype my, uh, brother,” Eric says, and is aware of how lame it sounds the minute it leaves his mouth. Dele raises an eyebrow and asks him if it’s more important than this.

“Than a drink with my drug dealer?” Eric says, as they fall behind the others in their step, quiet enough so they won’t hear. Dele pretends to stop, though, and give Eric a little shocked face.

“Is that all I am to you?” he says, nudging him. “I thought we were mates now.”

“I’m not just a customer?” Eric says, feeling himself smile.

“You’re my favourite customer,” Dele says, and he grins at Eric. “The highlight of my week is meeting you.” Eric glances at him, thinking he’s taking the piss again, but there’s a flash of sweet sincerity on Dele’s face, and Eric is taken by it. It must show to Dele, who covers it up with a laugh.

“Flatterer,” Eric says finally, turning away, though he can’t get Dele’s expression out of his head. “I can stay for one drink.”

One drink somehow turns into three pints and an ill-advised jagerbomb, and it’s not even eight o’clock. By the time they’re leaving the pub, they’re both decidedly tipsy, grabbing on to each other to steady themselves and laughing, and Dele’s unilaterally decided that he’s coming along to Eric’s.

Eric fumbles with his keys when they get to the door, partly because of the alcohol, and partly the nervousness. Dele’s crowded up behind him, mocking his attempts, and Eric’s distracted by his hands on his back, feeling them pushing lightly through the thin material of his football top.

“Can’t believe I’m finally inside,” Dele says when he gets the door open. The hallway’s dark, which means Harry isn’t in, and Eric gets the light, asking Dele what he means.

“You’ve never asked to come inside before.”

“I don’t go around inviting myself into people’s houses, Eric,” Dele says, looking haughty. “It’s called manners.”

“You just invited yourself over to mine,” Eric laughs, delighted at his expression. “I don’t go around inviting all my cute drug dealers into my place either.”

"Cute," Dele says, and Eric expects to see another smirk from Dele at that, but Dele's looking bashful, unexpectedly delighted at the compliment. He's leaning against the wall, hands behind his back, and Eric can't tear his eyes away from his tiny dimples. Eric takes a moment, hovering near the kitchen under the premise of offering tea, before he discards the plan and steps into Dele's space instead.

"Are you going to just hang around here?" he mumbles, and Dele tips his head up, meeting Eric's eyes. "Not take a seat?"

Dele doesn't reply, catching Eric's sweatshirt instead. He holds it lightly between his forefinger and thumb and pulls Eric in towards him. It makes Eric stumble, clumsily, and he feels hyper-aware of it all, Dele’s breath against him, the warmth of his body, Dele's scent, cold and sweat and smoke. "Or we could just stand around here, I guess," he adds, brain abandoning any of his already meagre social skills.

Dele raises an eyebrow and that and shifts slightly to eye Eric. "Are you always this awkward when you invite people back to yours?"

Eric's brain catches up with him before he can tell Dele it's been a while, and he just shrugs instead. "Sorry -- didn't know if this was a date."

"I didn’t say it was a date," Dele says, increasingly amused. "We played football together. Do you only fuck after dates, Eric?"

“No--!” Eric protests. “No, uh--”

“Am I making you nervous?” Dele laughs, looking delighted at the prospect.

“No,” Eric says firmly. “Yes.” He shakes his head, and as though to compensate, puts both hands by either side of Dele’s face, boxing him in against the wall. “I think I should stop talking now and kiss you.”

"I think so too," Dele says, with mock patience, and Eric refuses to let his mouth do any more damage and ducks in for a kiss.

They’re both drunk, and it makes them handsy and sloppy, barely able to make it to the bedroom. Dele kisses Eric’s neck at the hallway and asks him if they had to, the words going straight to Eric’s dick. When they make it to the bed, Eric doesn’t waste any time getting his mouth down Dele’s body; he pushes his shirt up and tight jeans down, Dele half laughing, half shuddering, Eric’s lips at his tummy. He’s loud, and it makes Eric pray Harry’s going to stay out for the rest of the evening, but in truth, he can’t bring himself to mind much; everything about Dele, the way he moves, and the way he sounds, gets Eric too heated with want to care about much else, digging his nails into Dele’s thighs to hold him in place as he goes down on him.

He collapses on Dele heavily when they’re done, sweaty and giddy, both laughing with the thrill of it. When Dele catches his breath, he pulls away only enough to get the brunt of Eric’s weight off him, and looks at Eric, twinkling. Eric’s feeling triumphant, loose and liberated with the alcohol and sex, and he noses Dele, mumbling something about how pretty he is.

“Pretty?” Dele says and arches an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with pretty?”

“Boys aren’t pretty,” Dele says, and Eric shrugs, putting a hand on Dele’s cheek. Dele leans into the touch, and Eric ducks in to kiss him sweetly.

“What kind of boys have you been hanging around?” he says, and Dele laughs, putting an arm around Eric. “My friends teased me about you, you know,” Eric says, looking at him.

“Yeah, for not having the balls to invite me up?”

“Shut up,” Eric laughs. “I didn’t know if it was weird! I didn’t even know you were into men until you brought up your ex. Besides,” Eric says, nosing him into another kiss. “I still think you could have made the first move as easily as I did.”

“Yeah,” Dele says, thoughtful. “Except you have a bit of a murder face.”

“A what now?”

“You know,” Dele says, and attempts to imitate it. He lowers his brow and glares at Eric, and the effect is so cute Eric can’t even look outraged, only laughing helplessly. “I only knew you weren’t a murderer when you laughed.”

“When I laughed?"

“It sounded like a dying seal. No murderer could sound that dumb laughing.”

“Is this – are you negging me? Putting me down so I start depending on you for validation?”

“Yeah,” Dele says, agreeably. “Is it working?”

“What, have me tell you you’re pretty so you can tell me my laugh is stupid and my face scares you?” Eric asks, amused. “Somehow it doesn’t sound like a good deal.”

“But who else is going to sleep with you?”

Eric looks at Dele, before he moves suddenly; he wrestles Dele down, eliciting a little yelp from him, till he’s got him pinned between his legs. “And where will you get your weed from?” Dele says, trying to wrestle him off, laughing with the strain of it.

“Oh, so you’re the only drug dealer in London,” Eric says. “I forgot about that.”

Dele rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you the best deals. You try buying from any of them – Ché will go for about double what I give you.”

“So you think I’ll buy from your ex? Awkward.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” Dele grins. “He charges a dumb white boy premium.”

“You’re the worst,” Eric says, grinning back. He ducks down again, framing Dele’s face, and this time the kiss is firmer, dirtier, making Dele immediately moan and grab his back.

They exhaust themselves after round two, rolling out onto their backs and catching their breath. The alcohol and tiredness catch up with Eric soon after, and he can feel his eyelids getting heavy when he realises there’s a weight lifting off the bed.

“Are you leaving?” he asks, and then adds, before he can stop himself, “You should stay.” In the dim light from the windows, he can make out Dele shrugging, and he says something about work in the morning.

“Oh right,” Eric says, and the disappointment must be apparent in his voice, because Dele crowds over him on the bed and gives him an apologetic kiss in the dark.

“Will you invite me up again next time?” Dele says, and his voice is playful, but Eric’s entirely sincere when he kisses him back in reply. He whispers “yeah,” right against Dele's lips, and smiles briefly against them, before Dele pulls away.

Eric spends the rest of the week distracted at work. He glances at his phone constantly, cursing when it buzzes only with work emails, or the family WhatsApp, or Sonny asking him if he’s making quiz night, or Harry asking him to pick up something at the shops.

There’s a deal launching midweek that keeps him occupied: evenings staying in late with takeaway dinners in front of the computer screen and piles of pages to proofread beside him, but even that doesn't put him off the way it usually would. He keeps replaying that evening in his head, Dele’s silly laugh and his bright smile, and the way he reacted when Eric’s lips were on his navel, till he realises he’s spent half an hour staring blankly at his screen, a dumb smile on his face.

He meets his sister on Friday. She comes down to the Barbican after work, and they roam through the new photography exhibition in the galleries before getting pizza and cocktails by the lake. She catches something is going on; glancing at him when his replies are a beat late, or when he keeps checking his phone as they chat. She asks him about his week, casually, and looks knowing when Eric casually mentions he spent Sunday hanging out with a guy.

“It’s nothing,” he tries, vainly, when she presses for details. “It’s casual. I think.”

“You don’t really do casual,” she says, and Eric shakes his head.

“No -- I mean – this is the first time we’ve really. Dunno, hung out,” Eric says, shrugging. “It wasn’t even a date. Really.”

“Well, it’s nice, anyway, that you’re getting out there,” she says, taking a sip of her gin and tonic and laughing when she sees the face he makes. “Don’t be angry at me, but you haven’t really dated since Jan.”

“Oh come on,” Eric mumbles into his beer, keeping his gaze on a couple of ducks waddling by the lake. “It’s just that I’ve been busy. I’ve not had the time.”

“Hey, I get it,” she says, and she sounds gentle. “The way you guys ended, it –”

“It’s not that,” Eric says, cutting her off. “Work’s been insane. You know that.”

His sister opens his mouth, like she’s considering saying something. Eric raises his eyebrows at her, challenging, and she surveys him before shaking her head and giving him an easy smile.

“How did you meet this person?” she asks, finally.

“Uh,” Eric pauses. “Tinder” he says, and hides a little grin to himself.

Eric doesn’t last through the weekend before he gives in. He texts Dele to see if he can a delivery on Sunday, even though he and Harry haven’t made it through the last baggie. He doesn’t stop nervously fidgeting with the rubric’s cube on his work desk until Dele replies, half an hour later, with a brief,  _ k ;) _ .

He makes it home before Dele does, scrambling around the living room to tuck away old magazines and jumpers thrown carelessly over the couch. When Dele rings, Eric tells him to come straight up, apologising for his house being in a state, and for still being in his work clothes.

“Want help getting out of them?” Dele asks, smirking and stepping into his space, catching Eric off-guard enough that he almost trips backwards.

“Uh,” Eric says, laughing. “I was thinking I could start by offering you water. Or paying you.”

“Couldn’t resist,” Dele says, twinkling as he steps back. “You set me up too well for that one. But I’ll take the money, thanks. And the water.”

Eric’s fingers brush against Dele’s when he hands him the cash, stomach fluttering at Dele this close to him, vaguely disbelieving that he’s had sex with someone who looks like this, with his high cheekbones and curly hair and bright, amused eyes. He’s distracted when he realises Dele is saying something, and flushes, asking him to repeat it.

“I asked, how was your week.”

“Oh right.” Eric shrugs. “Nothing exciting, mostly late nights at work. I did come third in a pub quiz with the boys, though.”

He goes into the kitchen to grab a glass for the water and Dele trails behind him, yawning hugely. Eric hooks an arm around Dele when he does, grabbing his shoulder affectionately. “Doesn’t seem as exciting as your week. Didn’t get much sleep?”

“Just an after party last night,” Dele says, with another yawn. “Ché had a gig. Then I got bollocked for coming in late to work this morning.”

_ Your ex _ , Eric thinks, getting out glasses from the kitchen cupboard. Dele hops onto the kitchen counter, accepting the glass Eric gives him, and the offer of tea Eric makes when he sees Dele yawn again. Eric puts the kettle on, and Dele swings his legs back and forth and asks how come he came third in his quiz.

“Don’t you have some sort of fancy lawyer job? Aren’t you meant to be clever?” He doesn't wait for Eric to reply though, almost making Eric drop the kettle when he gasps dramatically, and grabs Eric's shoulder. “Eric – what are you doing to my tea?”

Eric looks up from the milk he’s poured in, and Dele looks horrified. “You have to let it brew first – it’s so weak!”

He looks so comically dismayed when he takes a sip that Eric laughs, stepping into to where Dele’s sat on the kitchen counter and apologising. “Don’t they teach you how to make tea in Europe,” Dele grumbles. He sets the tea to one side and hooks a leg around Eric, pulling him in and pouting pitifully at him. 

“Can I make it up to you?” Eric asks, placing his hands on Dele’s sides and pulling him to the edge of the counter. Dele tips his head to the side, contemplating, putting his arms around Eric’s neck, and tugging him in.

“You can try,” he mumbles, and Eric looks amused. He leans in close, lips hovering teasingly over Dele's, grabbing Dele’s thighs and pulling them around his waist. He earns a groan from Dele, who wraps his arms around Eric’s neck, pressing their bodies together and pressing his lips right to Eric's in a slow, dirty kiss. 

Eric glances at the clock when they finish, and it’s not even nine. Dele’s lounging on the bed, blanket thrown carelessly over his naked body, and he gives Eric a cat-like smirk.

“You’ve made a mess of my sheets,” Eric tells him, and Dele laughs, looking down at himself. “Sorry,” he says, looking like he isn’t, and Eric laughs too. He goes into his ensuite to clean off, and when he comes out Dele’s standing in front of his bookcase, drawing out a heavy book and frowning as he flips through it. He’s put his boxers back on, low around his hips, and Eric resists the urge to tug them down as he crowds up behind him.

“Jesus, what do all these words mean,” Dele says, pouting at the book and then at Eric, like he could flirt the meaning out of them. “I don’t even know what the title means.”

Eric can’t tell if he’s seriously asking, but he offers a brief synopsis of the corporate governance code of 2006, hesitant and careful not to be condescending. It’s lost on Dele, who stops paying attention halfway through and moves on to something else, picking up his desk calendar of European landscapes and looking through it. Eric settles back down on the bed when he does, gingerly moving aside the stained sheets and picking up the weed they put away earlier to roll them both spliffs.

Dele keeps asking him questions as he rolls, taking a self-guided tour through Eric’s neat room. He asks Eric about his copy of the Alchemist in Portuguese, and the Eagles kit hanging from the back of his chair, and the Rothko print he’d forgotten to frame propped on his table. He laughs at the exercise planner on his desk that carefully marks out Eric’s gym sessions for the rest of the month.

"So were you a proper nerd in school?” Dele asks, flipping though one of Eric’s clients files.

Eric shrugs. “I did ok at uni.”

"You went to uni,” Dele says, after a brief silence. 

“Yeah, well,” Eric mumbles. “You kind of have to, to become a lawyer, don’t you?”

“That’s more than I’ve done. I've never finished my A-levels,” Dele says, and sounds nonchalant. “Just got bored and didn’t attend enough, so they kicked me out.”

“Well, you’re probably enjoying your job more than I enjoy mine,” Eric says, carefully. “So maybe uni is overrated, dunno.”

Dele drops the file, and moves back to the bed in a sudden motion. He climbs over Eric, straddling him and pressing their lips together, and Eric feels like he’s passed a test.

Dele moves off of him after they make out for a bit, and asks Eric to hand over the lighter, reaching over for the spliffs.

“Uni or no uni, I’m here selling my body for drugs,” Eric jokes, and Dele rolls his eyes at him.

“Who’s paying money for you?” Dele says, making a show of eyeing up critically, and Eric laughs, nudging him in the ribs.

Dele doesn’t kiss him again, and Eric doesn’t know if he’s invited to initiate. He sits like that, shoulder-to-shoulder at the edge of the bed with Eric, half-naked, and the weed makes them both content and sleepy, mumbling lazy rubbish to each other. They're only interrupted when Eric’s tummy rumbles loudly. Eric gets pink, but busies himself hauling up his laptop, balancing it on his hips and popping it open.

“Deliveroo?” he asks, but Dele’s staring at his desktop background. It’s nothing special, a picture of the last time his family were all in one place: all five siblings, the babies, and all three dogs. They were gathered outside their parents’ home with big happy smiles in the Lisbon sun. Eric wonders if Dele’s going to take the piss, but Dele asks if it’s his family, and who’s who.

Dele tips his head against Eric’s when he’s talking about them, which makes Eric’s heart swell, already full from rambling about all the Diers: a brother in Florida, a sister in Germany, and another in London, and the chaos it was when they all go home for the holidays. It’s warm and intimate, and Dele has a little frown on his face like he’s really paying attention. It makes Eric feel a dangerous urge to lean down and kiss his forehead.

“Anyway, not to go on about it,” he says instead. “Just miss them – everyone is so scattered about. See them a lot less now that I’m working, you know?”

Dele brushes his knuckles against Eric’s, as though in comfort, and Eric is touched. “Sounds like it,” Dele says, and Eric takes a minute before he puts an arm around Dele.

“Do you see your family loads?” Eric says, because it strikes him he hasn’t heard Dele talk much about himself. Dele’s quiet, before reaching over to steal Eric’s laptop from him, moving it on top of his own bony hips. “I don’t think you said,” Eric continues, when he doesn’t speak. “Do they live in London?”

Dele pulls up the delivery website, clicking on a menu for a Chinese place nearby, before he shrugs. “In MK,” he says, and Eric has to strain to hear his mumble, lower than usual. “Milton Keynes. I don’t really see them,” he says, a bit abrupt, and changes the topic. “What do you want to order?”

Eric looks at Dele as Dele focuses his gaze on the computer, deliberately stoic, and in the end he just pulls Dele closer to his side. Dele looks surprised at that, looking at Eric, but Eric feels soft, squeezing Dele’s arm and nodding at the laptop too. “Let me have a look at that menu,” he says, and when Dele gives him a tiny smile, he’s satisfied it was the right response.

Dele invites Eric to five-a-side again the next weekend. He doesn’t so much ask as tell Eric the five-a-side team liked his audition enough to make him a permanent member – “Luke’s shit anyway, he’s out” – and the message almost makes Eric laugh out loud into the conference call he's meant to be taking minutes on.

_ Didn’t even know it was an audition _ , he texts Dele back, and Dele replies with the purple devil emoji.

Eric moves around plans to make it work, trying not to feel stupid when he tells Jan and Mousa he can’t make it to their afternoon potluck. The feeling disappears, however, when he steps into the park and Dele’s there already, giving him the brightest smile Eric’s ever seen.

Five-a-side becomes a fixture in his exercise planner, and evenings with Dele in his week. It doesn’t take long for Harry to catch on. He teases Eric one morning when Eric looks bleary-eyed and hungover at breakfast, asking him about his night and gently mocking the way his eyes light up when he looks at the phone. “I should meet him,” he tells Eric, “He always leaves before I can. Got to vet him to make sure he doesn’t break your heart like the last one.”

Eric gives Harry a look over his yoghurt, which Harry ignores. “Invite him round for dinner next week,” Harry says, getting up and gathering their coffee mugs for refills. “Those ribs you make always seem to win over the boys."

_ Dinner _ ?, Dele replies, when Eric texts him.

_ I’ll cook :), _ Eric texts back, to which Dele says,  _ lol like a date? :P _

The reply throws Eric off.  _ Nah, Harry’ll be around too _ , he texts, quickly,  _ and I know you were eyeing up his PS3, if you wanted to play FIFA or something _ .

_ Cool _ , Dele replies, after enough time has passed that Eric had to set aside his phone so he stopped compulsively checking it.  _ Be there then. _

_ _

Eric ends up getting Domino’s instead of cooking because Dele’s text makes him self-conscious. He's nervously straightening up the flat before Dele arrives, a force of habit really, because it's clean enough, moving a few cushions aimlessly from one couch to the other. Dele looks nervous when he comes in too, doing a quick, distracted handshake with Eric.

Harry’s already on the couch with pizza, and he’s got the cricket on. It’s the exact kind of sport Eric expects Dele to make fun of, but he doesn’t, sitting stiffly at the edge of the sofa, close to Eric’s side. Harry asks Dele how it’s going, and Dele mumbles a response, shrugging when he's answering the question, fidgeting with the label on the beer Eric hands over to him. Eric's surprised at the shyness; the opposite of Dele out with him on the streets, quick jibes and cheeky laughter, and it's all a bit awkward at first, conversation slow and hesitant as they silently watch what appears to be England completely capitulating to Australia at the cricket.

Harry’s the most harmless person Eric knows though, and he’s easy company even around an uncharacteristically quiet Dele. He asks Dele about his day job, and follows up with a few questions on recommendations for a new pair of trainers when Dele tells him he works at JD. He sympathises with Dele about the slowdown on the Victoria line over the weekend, agreeing with his complaints about the weather. They talk about video games, Eric zoning out of the conversation slightly, contemplating the merits of the latest version of Call of Duty. It all eventually relaxes Dele, along with the food and the beer, and by the time Harry pulls up FIFA on his PS3 Dele’s mostly himself again, in high spirits as he tells Eric that he's making his apologises in advance, because he’s going to make him cry on FIFA.

“Already do that every time we play, mate,” Harry tells him. “But dunno if Dier will be too shy to cry around you today.”

Eric gives them both a glare, and Dele grins cheekily. “He already cries after sex,” he says dismissively to Harry. “I’m used to it.”

Harry chuckles, and Dele gets the same pleased expression he does when Eric laughs at his jokes.

“I’m ignoring both of you,” Eric says, hiding a fond smile. “You,” he says, pointedly, to Harry, “I’ll be glad when you move out.”

Dele asks Harry if he’s moving out, and Harry nods, reaching over for a piece of garlic bread. “With my girlfriend,” he says, and Eric corrects him, “Basically his fiancée.”

“But it’s ok,” Harry says carelessly, as Mbappé neatly dances past Dele’s sliding-in Sergio Ramos. “Toby the hot Belgian will be moving in my place instead.”

Dele looks interested, and Eric goes red. He looks at Harry warningly but Harry’s ignoring him, nodding in mock seriousness when Dele asks if that’s Eric’s thing, Hot Belgians.

Dele looks at Eric now, lips curling in amusement, and Eric feels very hot, shrugging his shoulders.

“My ex was Belgian,” he mumbles, but Harry says that isn’t all of it.

“Oh come off it, Harry.”

“His ex’s new boyfriend is also a Hot Belgian,” Harry informs Dele, and Dele leans forward in his seat.

“A Belgian love triangle,” Dele says, looking between Harry and Eric, “I see.”

“No,” Harry says, matter of fact. “Not a love triangle. Just Eric being into both of them when they were into each other.” He ducks down when Eric tries to throw a cushion at his face, and Dele laughs.

Eric catches Dele’s eye; he doesn’t want it to be awkward, bringing up exes in front of the person he’s currently seeing, but Dele doesn’t look bothered, laughing at Harry’s exaggerated description of Eric’s crushes on Jan and Mousa and teasing Eric in tandem.

They’re about four consecutive games, – and four consecutive losses for Eric, – in when Dele announces that he has to leave. Eric’s disappointed, walking him to the door and putting his hands on his waist, asking with a little pout if he has to leave.

“I’m not Belgian enough for you,” Dele replies, pouting back, and Eric laughs. He frames Dele’s face to give him a kiss, but Dele laughs and eases himself out of it, staying close to Eric.

“You’re the most Belgian person I know,” he says, nonsensically, which makes Dele laugh again.

“I’ll come over this weekend,” he promises, and this time he’s the one who leans in, giving Eric a sweet kiss goodbye.

“So,” Harry says, almost immediately when Eric walks back into the living room, and Eric groans. “What’s the deal?”

“There’s no ‘deal’,” Eric grumbles, picking up the remote by Harry’s side and switching the telly to University Challenge. He sits heavily on the couch next to him, flopping down, and ignores Harry’s look.

“I saw the way you were around each other this evening,” he says, and elicits an irritable yelp from Eric when he playfully punches his arm. “You got yourself a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me, Dier.”

“We’re not boyfriends,” Eric says, gaze fixed on a woman with a sharp face from Cambridge, answering a question about composers.

“Fuckbuddies?” Harry says, and Eric makes a face. “I don’t like the word.”

“You don’t like the concept,” Harry laughs. “Maybe he’s just waiting for you to ask him out.”

“Maybe,” Eric says, feeling a mixed rush of doubt and hope, sitting back on the couch and picturing the way Dele had kissed him goodbye. “He doesn’t seem like the type, though.”

“The type to what?”

“The type to – don’t know.” Eric thinks about Dele -- Dele inviting him to five a side, Dele inviting himself over after drinks, Dele stepping into his space with that addictive smirk, his hands all over Eric’s body. “The type to wait for someone to make a move.”

“People can get weird about being the person to ask if something is a thing,” Harry shrugs. “Remember me and Katie?”

“That’s just because you were a twat,” Eric says, and laughs when Harry tries to push him off the couch.

“You know what I’m saying though,” Harry says, when Eric gets back on, and Eric hums over his beer. “You don’t need to take him anywhere fancy. Hey," Harry says, brightly, "You know that party Jan and Mousa are having next month? The housewarming? Maybe you should ask Dele to come.” He pauses meaningfully, and tips his head towards Eric. “As your date?”

“Ask this guy I like to my ex’s party?” Eric laughs. “Now that you’ve fully given him the details of my tragic romantic backstory, thanks for that, H.”

Harry shakes his head in apology, though Eric waves it off. “To be fair, your ex is inviting you to a party to celebrate moving in with his new boyfriend,” Harry says. “I think anything at this point is fair game. Two birds with one stone, even.” Eric looks over at him, and Harry shrugs his shoulders. “You could show Jan you’re moving on.”

“I don’t need to show anything to Jan,” Eric sighs, getting up and picking up their empty beer bottles, Harry nodding his head in a silent thanks. “I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head, gathering up their plates and the empty pizza boxes, retreating into the kitchen. “I’ll think about it,” he calls out, after a beat, turning the tap on to do the washing up.

Eric thinks about it constantly the next few times Dele’s over, imagining taking him somewhere as his date, and the invite’s always at the tip of his tongue before he retreats.

There’s an evening when Dele comes over to his straight from work, and he looks exhausted, telling him about late nights out partying in west London and early mornings at work. Eric makes Dele eat first, his motherly instinct taking over; the sex later is lazy and intimate, lethargic, lips and hands against each other’s bodies.

Their post sex conversation is gentle and lazy, but Dele’s eyes started to close mid chat. He insists on trying to stay up, making Eric get them tea, but when Eric comes back into the room, Dele’s passed out on his bed, still undressed, sheets loosely thrown over him, mouth slightly open and dead to the world. Eric can’t help but smile to himself at the sight of it; Dele looks small and soft, breathing deeply, eyebrows creased like he’s frowning at his dreams. He looks vulnerable like this, defences lowered in a way Eric hasn’t seen from him before.

Eric tiptoes around the bedroom as he gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth and putting on an old shirt and new boxers. He gets into bed as quietly as he can after, all the lights switched off except the bedside lamp. He gets out  _ Homo Deus _ again, but he can’t focus on it; he keeps glancing at Dele, wondering if he should wake him, knowing Dele has never stayed over at his before. He wonders if it's easier if he just took a couple of pillows and slept on the couch, eventually moving to sit on the edge of the bed as he tries to reach a decision, staring at the crack of light from the open ensuite door. In the end, it’s Dele’s phone that makes the decision, buzzing and jerking him awake.

Dele looks disoriented, scrambling up and looking around the room in confusion, and Eric feels an unbidden pang of protectiveness at how momentarily lost he looks. He checks the message on his phone, then looks around, gaze settling on Eric, and Eric holds himself back from reaching out and gently stroking Dele’s cheek.

“All ok?” he asks, instead, nodding at Dele’s phone.

“Did I fall asleep?” Dele mumbles, barely sounding like he’s speaking English. Eric laughs and reaches out, ruffling Dele’s hair. Dele ducks away, frowning, and Eric tells him he did, apologising for not waking him.

“You looked really exhausted, sorry,” he says, and Dele yawns massively, telling him it’s cool.

“God,” he adds, “I’m so tired.” He tips himself back against the pillows, closing his eyes again.

“You should go back to sleep,” Eric says, “You look like you haven’t been getting much rest.”

“No,” Dele mumbles, eyes still closed. “I’ll leave in a second, sorry.”

“Del,” Eric says, gentle but firm. “Seriously.” He shifts down the bed, moving to get out of it. “I can take the couch, it’s cool.”

He looks back at Dele, and Dele looks confused. Eric shrugs, telling him he doesn’t want Dele to think he’s trying to get Dele to share his bed.

Dele mumbles, “You’re so nice to me all the time,” but it’s so quiet, Eric can’t be sure he’s heard right. He gives Dele a small smile though, reaching over to touch his knee, and to his surprise, Dele puts a hand over his, squeezing. “You don’t have to,” Dele says. “You can stay here.”

Eric opens his mouth to argue, but Dele insists, so Eric gets back in, switching off the light.

“You can always kick me out, though, seriously, Del, I don’t want –”

“Shut up,” Dele says, and there's something domestic and familiar about how grumpy he sounds that makes Eric grin. “Some of us are trying to sleep here.” He shifts onto his side saying that, and Eric resists the urge to sneak a glance, turning over to the other side instead. He maintains a gap between them, careful to respect any of the lines Dele seems to draw, breathing quietly till his body relaxes and lets itself rest.

Eric wakes up as the morning light cracks through the curtains. He turns onto his back, and finally gives in to checking in on Dele, who’s still asleep. He’s curled up in the blankets, mostly hidden, looking cold and small, and Eric’s tummy goes funny like it often seems to around Dele, feeling a sharp, twisting ache of want.

He decides he needs to distract himself, and extricates himself with as little disturbance as possible. He comes back with cup of coffee and the paper, needing something for his brain to focus on that wasn’t the boy in his bed.

Dele’s dead enough to the world that he doesn’t rouse till Eric’s halfway through the Guardian, and Eric turns to him, his heart growing a few sizes when he sees only the smallest bit of Dele emerge from the blanket, eyes peering suspiciously at the coffee and at Eric, like a rather irate and shy puppy. He mumbles something, and Eric misses it, setting the paper down and asking, “What was that?”

“Did you go out and buy that already?” Dele says, and pushes his head out a little more from the blanket.

Eric laughs. “No, I get it delivered.”

"Delivered?” Dele snorts. “How posh are you?”

“It isn’t posh!” Eric says, defensively. “I…just like reading the newspaper.”

“Nobody I know gets the paper delivered. Do you know that they invented this thing called the internet now, Eric?”

“I like having a physical copy. How else could I get my morning Brexit updates?”

Dele makes a face at that, and Eric grins, turning back to the paper. He starts reading out other headlines to Dele, the most boring ones he can find, till Dele’s completely hidden in the blanket in protest and groaning, telling Eric he’s the most boring person Dele’s ever met, and Eric’s brain won’t stop telling him, over and over, that this could be their everyday.

“Can you make me some tea?” he says when he re-emerges, plaintive, and Eric straightens up, nodding. “Could you make it not shit this time?”

“Should I ask Harry to make it?” Eric asks, amused.

“Yeah,” Dele says, eyeing Eric suspiciously. “I don’t trust your Portuguese arse to make a good cuppa.”

“You’re acknowledging I’m Portuguese?” Eric says, laughing. “Wow, how sleepy are you?”

“Not fully Portuguese,” Dele rolls his eyes. “You’re still a pasty white English guy. You’re like,” Dele says, pausing thoughtfully. “The worst of being English and the worst of being European.”

Eric laughs loudly and reaches over to ruffle his hair. Dele ducks, with a pout at him, and the fondness swells. “That sounds more like you now.”

Dele looks encouraged and carries on. “You could be tanned like Cristiano Ronaldo,” he says, “And could make a good tea. But instead you’re the opposite. Totally useless.”

Dele’s got a pout on when he talks, like he’s genuinely affronted at Eric’s failure to take advantage of his heritage. It’s cute, bantering and flirty, and Eric’s leaning in when he talks, a smile on his face and eyes locked with Dele. “Ronaldo’s tan is fake, you know,” Eric says, nudging him, and Dele turns his little nose up in the air.

“What’s stopping you from getting a fake tan? Where’s the commitment, Eric?”

“What, the commitment to impressing you?” Eric grins, and pushes in even closer. “Yeah, I guess I should be trying harder to impress you.

Dele’s grin becomes tentative at that, which Eric should have taken as a warning, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in to it, whispering, “Will you be impressed if I asked you out on a date?” Dele doesn’t say anything, so Eric feels compelled to keep going. “Well not a – just like. Jan and Mousa are having a party. And it’d be really nice if you came.”

“As your date,” Dele repeats, quiet, and his expression is hard to read. Eric’s stomach drops, nervously, and he nods. “As – um, yeah.”

The change in the atmosphere is embarrassingly obvious, and Dele falls quiet too long for it to be good. He has a frown on his face, and he ducks down to fiddle with the threads on one of Eric’s cushions. “I’m not,” he says finally, mumbling so quiet Eric has to duck in to hear him. “Sorry, but I’m not looking for anyone to date right now.”

“Oh.” It feels like someone’s caught Eric’s insides and squeezed them tightly till he can’t breathe, and for a moment he can’t trust himself to speak. He feels a hot mix of stupidity and disappointment, and It takes some courage for him to catch Dele’s gaze. Dele’s looking guilty, and Eric forces himself to smile, lifting himself off the bed again.

“No, that makes sense,” he says, clearing his throat so his voice doesn’t come out funny. “Sorry – I misread—”

“No, it’s fine,” Dele says, and it comes out in a rush too. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No – really. Thanks for being honest.” Eric says, nodding, the smile still feeling frozen on his face. “You should still come,” Eric says, and Dele looks surprised. “I mean -- as my mate,” he says, and forces his fake smile to get even wider.

“I don’t want to –” Dele says, uncertain. “Like, if you don’t want me to –”

“Of course I want you to,” Eric gets out, in a rush, forcing himself to sound more convincing the less he feels like he is. “We’re mates, right? I really want us to be mates. I’d like you to meet my friends.”

Dele’s quiet, looking at Eric suspiciously, like he’s trying to read his face. In the end, Dele relaxes his shoulders and says quietly, “I really want us to be mates too.”

Eric feels a deep desire for the ground to open up underneath him and swallow him in at that very moment and keeps the smile plastered on his face as he gets up off the bed.

“Great. Cool,” he says, awkwardly, “I’ll – I should get us our tea,” he finishes, lamely, and turns around to escape before Dele can say anything else.

The feeling of wanting to be burned alive in the fire of your own burning hot stupidity doesn’t leave Eric for the rest of the week.

He mentions it only briefly to a sympathetic, and slightly confused Harry, conveying the story mostly through groans and profuse reminders that he would never listen to Harry about anything again. He tries to distract himself by spending longer in the gym than usual, and having a bit of a panic spending spree at Foyles, getting a book on the London Riots, two books on Rothko and, after much internal debate, a self-help book called  _ The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck _ , which turns out to be profoundly useless in helping Eric achieve that goal.

He doesn’t text Dele, though that’s quite routine for them; they don’t always text a lot, other than when they’re scheduling drops, exchanging abuse over the weekend’s five a side results, or when Dele finds idiotic internet memes to send over Eric’s way, and then ghosts Eric when he sends the customary solitary cry-laughing face in response.

He only gathers up the courage to message him the day before the party. He has half a mind to bail on it altogether, but the vision of Jan’s disappointed face admonishing Eric,  _ I thought we said that we were going to try and stay friends _ , stops him. 

_ Are you still coming? _ he texts Dele, and then adds, wistfully, erasing it the second he’s done,  _ because it’s  _ _ totally fine _ _ if you change your mind. _

Dele replies twenty-one agonizing minutes later, with  _ Sure :) _ , and  _ what time should I be there? Can I come to yours first? _

_ _

He tells Dele to come over half an hour before, for beers and to do away with any weirdness before they head over. An hour before, there’s a knock on his door, and Eric frowns, suspicious. He opens the door to find a nervous-looking Dele, who hands over a six pack of Stella.

“I didn’t know what to get,” he says, by way of hello. “Is this okay?”

“You didn’t have to get anything,” Eric mumbles and ushers Dele in. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, well,” Dele says, and it’s not an answer. He looks over at Eric, though, and his look is so earnestly apologetic that it somehow makes Eric feel worse, as though he is being pitied.

“Is Harry in?” Dele asks, when Eric says nothing, and Eric shakes his head, saying he’s going to head over from his girlfriend’s. “Do you want a beer?” Eric asks, and Dele nods quickly, following Eric obediently into the kitchen when beckoned.

They continue the small talk for a while, brief and unlike them, dancing around each other and the ill-fated-assumption elephant in the room, till Eric excuses himself to change, cursing himself all the way up to his bedroom. 

He re-emerges into the living room, standing in front of the couch Dele is spread out on, and Dele looks up from his phone and raises his eyebrows pointedly at him.

“What?”

“I’m trying to ask this in the nicest way possible,” Dele says, slowly. “But were you once, like, really fat or something? And then you lost a lot of weight?” Eric blinks at Dele, and Dele continues. “I’m only asking because all your clothes are ten sizes bigger than you need them to be.”

Eric doesn’t know what changes in that moment, but something breaks in both of them. He looks at Dele, and then picks up one of the pillows off the couch closest to him. Dele yelps and ducks, falling into helpless giggles as it makes a narrow miss of his face. Dele’s laugh is infectious as always, and Eric is trying to swallow back his laughter too, voice rising indignantly above Dele losing it.

“There’s nothing wrong with this shirt,” he says, indignant. “What’s wrong with this shirt?”

“Why don’t you have anything that fits properly?” Dele asks, now on the floor after his outburst.

“All my stuff fits,” Eric says, but Dele’s scrambling up and grabbing Eric’s arm. “Come with me,” he says, and Eric follows with useless protests. Dele deposits Eric in front of the mirror in his room, standing behind him. He pulls his shirt from behind, so it clings to his front. “Look at how ripped you are,” he says, and Eric tries not to go red. “Don’t you want to show your ex what he’s missing?”

Eric tells him he won’t think Jan’s missing anything when he sees Mousa, but Dele pretends he doesn’t hear, opening Eric’s closet before Eric can say anything and rummaging through the neatly hung up shirts. He pulls out a smaller one, blue and with polka dots, and hands it over to him. “How about this?”

“My mum got that one for me,” Eric grumbles, shaking his head. “It’s too tight, I meant to return it.” 

“Come on,” Dele coaxes, pressing the shirt to Eric’s chest. “The colour’s nice with your eyes.” 

Eric raises an eyebrow, but he acquiesces reluctantly, sighing and telling Dele to turn away as he strips his shirt off. Dele doesn’t, eyeing him as he changes, and Eric has to nudge him off to get a view of himself in the mirror.

“You can see my tummy,” he says, dismayed, flattening his hands over his front.

“You can see your nipples,” Dele says, with a giggle.

“Right,” Eric says, getting redder. “I’m taking it off.”

Dele protests, but Eric ignores him, pulling out a perfectly respectable black sweatshirt to throw over his clothes. He feels Dele’s gaze on him, as he adjusts his belt, and frowns into the mirror. “Stop staring at me.”

“Why?” Dele says, grinning. “Are you shy changing around the other boys, Eric?”

“When they talk about my nipples, yeah,” Eric says, and Dele laughs again. Eric raises his eyebrows at him, and Dele tells him he’s doing a classic Eric murder face right now.

“Even with the Disney Prince hair,” Dele adds, reaching over and petting it, fingers spiking the hair up and making Eric irritably push it back down again.

The nervousness and mortification have subsided, but Eric discovers they’ve given way to a possibly worse emotion: an intense desire to grab Dele’s hand and tug him towards him, giving him a kiss to shut him up. Dele’s looking particularly good, in a soft, oversized cardigan where the sleeves go almost past his hands, looking lit up in amusement and delight when he’s mocking Eric.

“Are you going to be irritating all evening?” 

“I’m going to give you fashion advice all evening, yeah,” Dele says, nonchalant and pretending to buff his fingernails. “Don’t pretend that isn’t why you invited me.”

“That’s definitely not why I invited you,” Eric says, and for a second, the brief, awkward silence re-emerges.

“Whatever,” Dele says, after a beat, rolling his eyes with a bit too much exaggeration and shaking his head. “After this shirt, all the Hot Belgians will be begging for you back.”

“Yeah, well,” Eric says, turning to his reflection and straightening his sweatshirt. “Let’s talk after you’ve seen Mousa.”

Dele is relentless until they leave, commenting on Eric’s choice of aftershave, the gel he puts in his hair and the shoes he picks out, and Eric thinks it’s all a part of the apology. He only settles down when they get on the bus to Jan’s, falling quiet, which means he’s getting nervous. Eric’s stupid brain instinctively wants to reach and hold Dele’s hand in reassurance, and he has to struggle to rein it in, putting his hand on Dele’s knee instead.

“They’re nice, you know” he tells Dele, as the bus pulls past the park. Dele nods, slouching in his seat.

“I know,” he replies, with a shrug. “I’m sure.” He glances at Eric. “Are they posh and smart like you are?” he says, somehow managing to make it sound like an insult.

“They’re all smart,” Eric says, after a careful pause. “But not necessarily – uni smart,” he says, shrugging and looking over at Dele. “You won’t feel out of place.”

Dele’s quiet for a bit. “Guess they can’t be too smart if they’re friends with you,” he says, and Eric finds himself fondly rolling his eyes.

Mousa answers the door for them, holding a bottle of wine. He gives Eric a one-armed hug and a kiss, and shakes Dele’s hand. He’s dressed in a black turtleneck and expensive jeans and introduces himself to Dele in his soft Flemish accent, serious and focused when he speaks. Dele looks at Eric when Mousa’s turned his back, making Eric stifle a laugh when he shakes his head with comical exaggeration and mimes swooning, mouthing to Eric that he really wasn’t kidding.

The party, like their flat, is typical of Jan and Mousa – sophisticated, adult, European. They live in a lovely converted Victorian house in Stoke Newington, all dark wooden floors and large windows, with plants abundant on the shelves and coffee tables, and bright, expensive rugs on the floor. There is red wine and craft beer laid out in the kitchen, and wooden trays with cheese and crackers out in the living room. Their friends have all turned out, some of them gathered around the TV, where Ajax are playing a late game, some outside on the balcony with cigarettes, and Sonny, Moussa and a few others having a lively game of Uno around the dining room table.

Eric keeps Dele by his side, importing some of his nervousness by proximity, worried he’ll think the party was too posh or too lame, or that it was a mistake to come. Dele’s closed off at first, shaking hands with Jan rather stiffly, and mumbling when Eric introduces him around. Sonny turns out to be a gift, however, his loud, uncontained exuberance only amplified by the beer he’s consumed, taking them both into his custody and pulling them into the highly competitive spontaneous tournament of Uno.

It turns out quickly that Dele and Sonny are instantly compatible, forming an impromptu alliance by the second round against the reigning champion Moussa and trying to maximise their use of Draw Fours against him through strategic plays of their reverse cards. They go through several rounds of Uno, and several bottles of beer, and there’s swearing in about three different languages when Eric excuses himself to get a beer from the kitchen, grabbing Dele’s shoulder and squeezing it to ask him if he wants one. Dele throws a little smile at him over his shoulder, nodding, and Eric tries not to be caught in how pretty he looks when his face shines and he’s at ease.

He must not have done a good job of it, though, because when he walks into the kitchen, Jan takes one look at his face and raises his eyebrows. Eric ignores it, strategically, popping open two beers from the ice bucket they’ve laid out.

“Great party, as usual,” he says. “I’m glad all the boys could make it.”

“Dele’s nice,” Jan says, in reply, ignoring Eric in turn. “What’s going on there?”

Eric feels like he’s flushing for about the twentieth time in the day without meaning to. “I told you,” he says, nonchalant. “I said I was bringing a friend.”

“A friend,” Jan says, skeptically. “A really pretty friend.”

“Sure,” Eric concedes.

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“Yes,” says someone, and for a minute Eric’s heart stops. It’s only Harry, though, who’s come into the kitchen looking for a refill of his wine, laughing at Eric’s panicked face. “Don’t worry, he’s still out there, I think him and Sonny have made it to the finals.” Eric glares at him when the panic subsides, and Harry laughs again. “What? It’s true.”

“We  _ were _ sleeping together,” Eric says, voice low and keeping an eye on the door. “Not a thing anymore. He’s not interested in a relationship. We’re friends now. Good friends.”

Harry suggests gently that maybe Dele’s playing Eric, and it makes Jan raise his eyebrows even higher. Eric gives Harry a glare, and shakes his head, protesting, feeling the need to defend Dele and tell them it’s not like that.

“He’s said he’s not interested in me,” he says, and it’s tough to say out loud. He takes a big gulp of his beer, and shrugs. “It’s not my place to ask why.”

“Are you kidding? He’s around at the flat every week – more, even,” Harry says, turning to Jan as though for back-up. “Still shocked he said no, to be honest.” Eric grimaces, and Harry shrugs. “He likes you, mate. He must have panicked when he said he didn’t.”

“Every week?” Jan asks, and Eric wonders how he hadn’t noticed how judgemental his voice could get when they were dating.

“It’s not what it sounds like.” Eric says. “He isn’t playing me. We both know where we stand.”

“I’ve seen the two of you for one evening and just the way he looks at you—” Jan starts.

“It’s like that constantly. Every time he’s around,” Harry confirms to Jan, and Eric takes his eyes off the door long enough to continue glaring at Harry.

“Harry -- just drop it,” he says, shaking his head and picking up the beers. “I’m going to go check in on Dele,” he says, and turns to the door before he can catch either of their looks at that.

The Uno tournament seems to have wrapped up when Eric returns to the living room, the boys are scattered around, and the music someone’s put on Mousa’s expensive vintage record player is getting distinctly louder and more danceable. Dele’s by himself again, leaning against the wall, and lights up when he spots Eric coming towards him. His smile makes Eric smile too, the little sparks of infectious sunshine that seem to burst occasionally out of Dele, and Eric hands him the beer, asking if he’s ok.

“Good party,” he says, and Dele laughs, nodding, taking a big gulp of his beer. “Your friends are nice,” Dele says, moving a little closer to Eric so he can hear him over the music.

“I thought you’d get on with them,” Eric says, with a smile. “They’re pretty easy going.”

“Sonny’s invited me to a gig next week,” Dele says, trying not to look too pleased. “Skepta. He’s my friend now.”

“Skepta?”

Dele gives him a dirty look. “Sonny. He’s replacing you.”

“Oh no,” Eric laughs, nudging him. Dele nudges him back, and Eric puts his arm around him, guiding him gently towards the popcorn, laughing harder when Dele calls him a hungry hungry hippo.

“Did you win the Uno?”

“Nah,” Dele says, grabbing a fistful of popcorn. “But I came close. Serge won.”

“Close,” Eric says, with air quotes. “Sure.”

“Shut up,” Dele says, throwing a piece of popcorn on Eric’s head. “They told me you were the worst at it.”

“Filthy lies. You trust your friends and then they slander you behind your back.”

They carry on like this for a while, gentle, toothless insults and endless laughter, going through the bowl of popcorn and two more beers while staying wrapped up in each other. Eric looks around him and away from Dele only when he tears himself away to go take a piss, finding that the party had been thinning, and almost an hour has passed.

It’s only in the bathroom he realises he’s a bit lightheaded, tipsy, mind swirling as he steadies himself over the sink. His brain floods with thoughts, most of them of Dele: Dele back by the empty bowl of popcorn with his silly laugh and bright eyes, Dele who seemed different from the person he was talking about to Jan and Harry and Mousa. He was gorgeous, and funny, and good hearted, not someone playing Eric callously, or using him for sex.  _ Maybe he panicked when you asked him out _ , Harry said, and that bit at least seems like it could be true. Or maybe tonight could change Dele’s mind, he thinks, thinking about the connection when their eyes meet, like there’s nobody else in the crowded house but each other.

He smiles to himself thinking about it, how fun the evening was, and how fun it was especially to spend it with him. He feels briefly, drunkenly triumphant about everything, suffused with contentment from it when he comes out of the bathroom and gives Dele a wide smile.

“Why are you looking at me weird,” Dele says, and it makes Eric laugh with disproportionate happiness. He leans in, putting a hand on Dele’s side, and asks if he wants to leave with him. Dele meets his eyes when he withdraws, just enough to check Dele’s expression, and Dele nods silently. Eric feels drawn to him, and leans in like pulled by a magnet, stopping himself only when he’s too close. Dele hasn’t moved back though, eyeing him and waiting with his breath drawn, and the look he gives Eric stirs both his dick and the butterflies in his tummy. “I should tell the guys we’re leaving,” Eric whispers against him, and Dele nods, swallowing, the air between them shifted.

He finds Jan smoking out on the balcony with Mousa, and he gives them both one armed hugs goodbye, refusing the offer of a menthol and telling them the party was lovely. Jan’s eyeing Eric, and Dele somewhere behind them in the living room, visible through the glass doors. Mousa asks, with a teasing twinkle, if they are leaving together. Jan doesn’t look as teasing when Eric hums noncommittally, a slight frown on his face.

“Jan,” Eric starts, preemptively, but Jan cuts him off.

“It just doesn’t sound like it will end well,” he says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t look casual. Like you won’t get hurt.”

“We’ll be fine,” Eric says, quiet, and trying not to be stung by the indignity of Jan being the one to tell him this.

“It’s just that—” Jan starts, and looks at Mousa for help. Mousa just shrugs, and Jan turns back to Eric. “You have a tendency to be passive. Not ask for what you want.”

Eric frowns. “It’s not like that,” he says. “We’ve communicated. You don’t get Dele,” he adds, a bit involuntarily heated. “We both know which page we’re on, okay?”

“Nobody’s saying you don’t,” Mousa says, easily. “We’re just saying you two obviously like each other. Maybe it’s worth asking again why he doesn’t want to be in a relationship. Anyway,” he adds, hastily, looking behind Eric’s shoulder as the balcony door slides open. “We’re glad you two had a good time,” he says, smiling charmingly as Dele emerges from behind Eric into the room.

Jan’s goodbye to Dele is a little stiffer, and Eric can tell Dele notices, falling quiet when they leave the flat together, a little frown on his face. When they step out of the apartments into the cool night air, walking towards the bus stop, Dele asks Eric if Jan and Mousa don’t like him.

Eric wonders about this; how easily Dele catches micro shifts in the environment, as though he is constantly scanning for it, constantly ready to reject any environment or person before they can reject him.

“They don’t bite, Del,” he says though, gentle and easy, and Dele pouts, catching Eric by surprise as he wraps both arms around Eric’s waist, leaning against him as they walk.

“Jan doesn’t like me, I can tell.”

“That’s not true,” Eric shakes his head, “He’s just –” he adds, waveringly, and Dele pulls away as they reach the bus stop.

“What?” Dele frowns, and Eric looks away from him, scanning the dim electronic sign that informs them in blinking orange letters that the 106 was five minutes away. “He didn’t approve of me?”

“It’s not like that,” Eric says, looking away from the sign. “Jan’s just a very. He’s a protective ex.”

Dele falls silent at that, and Eric feels instantly stupid. “Friend,” he corrects himself, a beat too late. “I should have said protective friend.”

The bus emerges from around the corner, and Dele sticks out a hand to flag it down. Eric looks at him as they shuffle in, but Dele looks straight ahead, going towards the back and swinging himself into the seat by the window.

Eric doesn’t know how to continue the conversation, confused and embarrassed, and Dele keeps his gaze fixed out of the window, lips still curled into a small frown. A large group of loud girls get on at the stop for the overground, stumbling over their own heels and laughing loudly, filling up the dreadful silence. Two of the girls get in the seats behind them, complaining about a guy on Tinder that didn’t text one of them back. Eric tries to focus on them and not the way Dele’s thigh is still pressed against his.  _ The way you act around each other _ , Jan had said, and Eric thinks about how they’re acting around each other now, Dele’s pout and Eric’s worry, bodies pressed together and looking for all the world like a couple having a tiff. His stomach twists uncomfortably, thinking about how much he wants that to be a reality – a couple going to a party together, a couple having an awkward fight on the bus, a couple getting to go home together and kiss before they even take off their coats in the hallway.

He only speaks to Dele when they’re close to their stop, squeezing his knee. “This is us.” 

Dele trails behind him when they’re outside, and Eric looks at him, nervous. “Didn’t mean to kill the conversation,” he mumbles, and Dele shakes his head.

“Just didn’t want to talk on the bus,” Dele says, equally quiet, and Eric nods, fumbling in his pockets for his keys.

Inside, Dele leans against the wall in the hallway, and gives Eric a look that makes him helpless. He puts his hands on Dele’s cheek, gently, and Dele looks at him, lips parted slightly, eyes fixed on Eric. Eric hesitates, pausing, and doesn’t lean in.

“Eric,” Dele mumbles, when Eric doesn’t move, and Eric shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he whispers back. “I want to kiss you.”

Dele looks at Eric like he’s trying to read him, before he presses his lips together and nods. “Can I at least get a hug?” he asks quietly, and the earnestness of it breaks Eric’s heart. He nods, and gathers Dele in, arms wrapping around his body in a tight hug, and Dele clings to him, burying his face in Eric’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Dele mumbles into the hug, and Eric feels his stomach drop. He just squeezes Dele harder though, and then lets go, holding his shoulders and mustering up a weak smile. “We should get our coats off,” he says, and Dele looks down at his trainers. “We can talk on the couch.”

Eric gets them tea, and standing over the counter alone, waiting for the kettle to boil, he once again feels how drunk he is, though less powerful about it this time. He feels confused and heavy headed when he returns to the living room, and Dele is cross legged on the couch, rolling a joint that will help neither of them with careful focus. Dele thanks Eric for the tea, not looking up when it’s handed to him. They sit together quietly for a while, Eric focusing on slowly sipping his too hot tea, Dele twisting the ends of the joint and lighting up, before Eric breaks the silence.

“Can I ask,” he says carefully, and Dele frowns into his lap, looking instantly tense. “Can I ask, and I’m sorry if this is an unfair question.” Eric bites his lip, and the tea is doing nothing to settle how sick he feels in his stomach. “But why don’t you want to give me a chance?”

Dele’s shaking his head before Eric can even finish the question. He wordlessly passes the joint to Eric, and Eric takes a fruitless inhale, the weed doing nothing for his nerves either, except bringing on a slight coughing fit. Dele draws his knees up to his chest and reaches for his tea.

“Because it’s an unfair question,” Eric continues, when Dele still says nothing. “If you just don’t see me like that.” Eric keeps his eyes on Dele, determined to get his way through saying his piece, even as he feels like he wants to throw up. “I get it. If you just didn’t see me romantically, fine.” Eric takes in a breath. “But you act like you do.”

“Eric—” Dele says, finally, and reaches for the spliff. Eric shakes his head, passing it to him, cutting him off.

“You’re not the kind of guy who’d lead people on about something like that.” He finishes, a bit needy, heated with a mix of alcohol and desperation. “You’re not that person, Del.”

“It’s just not a good idea,” Dele mumbles, finally, and his voice sounds smaller than Eric’s ever heard it.

“Because you don’t see me that way?”

Dele’s nodding, but his face is crumpling at the same time, and he shakes away Eric’s attempt to return the spliff, putting his hands over his face instead. “Yeah,” he says, his voice muffled.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Eric says, and he’s surprised at his own conviction. 

Dele doesn’t look up, saying into his hands, “You don’t think my feelings are true?”

“Yeah,” Eric says, and steels his voice. “Yeah, I don’t, actually.” He swallows, and forces himself to carry on. “You say that, but the way you’ve been acting around me all night—”

“Eric,” Dele interrupts, shaking his head and looking miserable. “I just. You don’t get it.” He looks down and fidgets with the spliff Eric hands to him, before shaking his head and taking a deep inhale. “I have stuff going on. In my life. And with my head. Just. Too much stuff.”

“In your past? Is it your ex? Ché?”

Dele shrugs. “That. Other stuff,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eric remembers how abrupt Dele sounded when he asked about his family, and he reaches tentatively for Dele. “Is it your—”

Dele moves his body away from Eric’s hand. He’s looking small, and sad, holding his body tense and defensive, shaking his head. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” He adds, a little softer, bring his head up to look vaguely in Eric’s direction. “It’s not easy to talk about.”

“Try me,” Eric says, voice now soft too, but Dele’s shaking his head again, and looks like he might cry. “Okay,” Eric tries again, when Dele doesn’t speak. “I’m not trying to force you to do anything. I’m just here if you want to talk.”

“I’m fine,” Dele says, and he swallows quickly. “Look, maybe Jan is right.” Dele looks up, and Eric feels decidedly horrible when he meets his gaze. “I guess I’m leading you on, ain’t I. I should – we should – stop.”

“It’s leading me on if you’re not interested in me romantically,” Eric says. “If you are, but there’s this other stuff –” Eric bites his lip, pausing. “I just want to know how off base I am about us, Del.” Eric touches Dele’s hand, gently, and Dele doesn’t move it away. Eric shifts forward on the sofa, encouraged, voice dropping even softer. “If you’re really not interested,” he says, and Dele frowns, looking down at where their hands are meeting, “Just tell me. I’ll move on. But I can’t if I know that’s not true and there’s a chance—”

“Eric,” Dele whispers. “We’re not going to happen.” He doesn’t move his hand away from underneath Eric’s, though, and Eric squeezes it, encouraged. 

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s my answer.”

“Are we not going to happen because you’re not interested in me, or are we not going to happen because there’s this stuff going on you won’t talk about?”

Dele finally looks up at Eric, and he looks upset when he meets Eric’s eyes, shaking his head. “If I say it’s the second thing, you’re going to think there’s a chance I’ll change my mind.”

“So it is the second thing,” Eric says, a little more urgent, shifting a little closer still to Dele. “Dele, I—”

“I don’t want a relationship,” Dele says, louder, firmer, and he withdraws his hand from underneath Eric’s in a sudden motion, as though he’s been stung. Eric looks stung too, and Dele looks like he’s trying to set his lips in a firm, neutral line, though his lower lip is wobbling. He shakes his head at Eric, and moves to get up off the couch. “Can you just – can you just accept that please.” He says and wipes his cheek surreptitiously with the end of his sleeve, shaking his head. “I just – I’ve got – I’ve got to go.”

“Dele –” Eric tries again, and Dele shakes his head.

Eric can’t bring himself to get up off the couch, nor walk Dele to the door. Dele lingers in his step, uncertain for a minute, before he shakes his head, grabbing his jacket off the couch and wiping his face again. “I’ll – I’ll see you around I guess,” Dele mumbles, but Eric looks away. Only when he finally hears the door shut in the hallway does he put his throbbing head in his hands, exhaling deliberately into them, long, slow and shaky.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would not be able to post fic, or cope with life, or be a functioning person in the world, without my best girl E. Thank you for being my babs always and always making me giggle when you're brutal about the semi-colons. 
> 
> This fic is for separation anxiety, who light up my life every day. Let's never stop making fun of Eric Dier, ladies.

He doesn’t text Dele after that night. 

Work picks up, as the first quarter rush before half-term and the bank holidays piles documents in his inbox. It’s easier this way, spending most of his evenings hunched in front of his laptop, and his spare ones helping Harry move into the new flat. His phone mostly buzzes with emails from bankers and partners; occasionally, there’s a few scattered WhatsApps from Dele -- _ coming 2 5 a side today at Heath _ and _ hey got a reup if u wanted to chill/buy this weekend _\-- which he ignores.

The flat is empty in March; Toby tells him he’s only moving in after Easter, so once Harry’s gone, Eric finds himself mostly with his own company. 

In the spare evenings he’s home in time for dinner, he orders rigatoni and eats it moodily in front of University Challenge. Jan texts him, asking if he still wants to meet for that exhibition at the V&A, and Sonny and Moussa check in about Uno night at the pub. Eric cancels on both, feeling drained; it’s supplemented in part with the slight dread that Sonny may have invited Dele too. 

He tells work he’ll be around during Easter, but after the third straight Friday of takeaway and Wikipedia wormholes from the week’s Viewer’s Challenge, he has a moment of weakness and pulls up flights to Lisbon. He emails his manager, telling him he’s moving his annual leave forward, and he texts the family WhatsApp the next day and asks who else would be around. 

He feels a calm he’s missed for ages at the Pret in Heathrow, flat white in hand and waiting at the gate. He hasn’t told anybody that he’s going away, and he’s got just his book and a few crosswords for the flight, determined to let nothing else sit on his mind. His father drives him home from Portela, and Cisco and Clay are waiting for him right at the door, racing each other to see who’d be the first one to knock him over. 

Everything’s better back home. The afternoons are mellow and golden, and the sky’s cloudless, the ocean sparkling with the sunlight and the weather warm and inviting. He tells his mum and dad he’s fine, just distracted because work is stressful, and he spends most of the day taking the dogs out for long seaside walks with his little sister and helping his mother out with the garden. 

On the Monday after Easter, his school friends text him, admonishing him for not telling them that he’s back. They invite him for a road trip with some tourists they met on a night out. They’re English, his friends tell him, and we’re taking them to Guincho for a surf. _ We got an AirBnB right next on the beach _ , Irene texts the WhatsApp group. _ Pick you up at seven tomorrow? _

_ Yeah_, Eric texts back, after little introspection, thinking about how he misses the swell and thrill of the surf, salt in your hair and nothing but blue stretched out in front of you for miles. 

Irene and Ruben pick him up in a big, beaten up van they bought second-hand for the summer, pulling up in front of his parents’ driveway and yelling at him to get in. The van is chaotic, stuffed with surf equipment and sand and smelling of fish and coffee, and they are noisy and cheerful, shouting over each other to introduce the Englishmen to Eric over Post Malone blaring from the speakers. 

Eric gathers the boys are from Manchester Uni, northerners on holiday to the coast. Jesse, Marcus and Trent, tall and athletic and easy-going lads who pick up the surf quite naturally, taking the boards out to the waves and laughing at each other when they get playfully tossed around by the sea. He plays translator, bantering with them in English and bargaining for the lowest board rental prices for them in Portuguese. 

The ocean is just wild enough to give them all something of interest, but too calm to be dangerous. Eric exhausts himself, first catching some waves with the rest, then having a swim out as far as it’s safe to, avoiding the current and floating in the quiet, sun beating down on his front. He stays out till the sun begins to withdraw, and by the time he swims back, his friends are nowhere to be seen. Only one of the English boys is left behind at their spot, lying on a beach towel among some scattered clothes and an open cooler, holding a book over his head. 

“Where’s everybody gone?” Eric asks, unrolling a towel next to Trent. Trent indicates lazily over to the far end of the beach, where Eric can make out a little bar, decked out in string lights, people milling around as the sun lowers itself into the ocean. 

“Getting a head start on the drinking,” Trent says, and Eric notices that his accent isn’t Mancunian. It's scouse, and it’s drawling and pleasant. Trent sits up a bit as Eric makes himself comfortable by his side, getting out a Corona from the cooler and a packet of crisps he’d stuffed in his bag. He opens the crisps noisily and nods at the book Trent’s set down on the towel. 

“Teju Cole?” 

“_ Open City _. Just started reading it.” 

“I read it when I first moved to England, actually,” Eric says. “Dunno, being lonely in a big city. It was a good read. Fitting.” 

“You grew up around here?” 

“Lisbon. I only moved to London for uni.” 

“Just moved to Manny too, me,” Trent nods. “Last year. I’m from Liverpool.” 

“I guessed,” Eric admits, looking over at him. Trent’s cheekbones are highlighted by the dim light of the early evening, and Eric’s caught by a sudden, unwelcome thought that they look a bit like Dele’s. He pushes it aside and asks Trent about what he studies back home. 

They stay out there long enough that they lose track of time. The sunset starts off a warm tangerine, and then purplish blue, and Trent and him talk about everything: Lisbon and Liverpool, beaches and docks, siblings and books, chess and football. He’s the youngest child, his favourite author is Joan Didion, he’s convinced the Premier League is the best in Europe, he once played Magnus Charles as a teenager online. He makes Eric laugh, grinning when Eric grins, gaze fixed on him. Eric’s caught up in it, and he barely hears the sounds in the background: the distant sound of teenagers shrieking, mothers shouting for their children when they swim too far out, beach food vendors calling out to sell _ bolas de berlim _. It’s only when it steadily gets dark around them, and a chill begins to set in, that Eric realises they’ve left the others for ages, and checks his phone, laughing at the seven missed calls from Irene.

She’s already drunk when they make their way to the beach bar. Eric tries to duck her as she wraps her arms around him, shouting loudly in his ear that she was sure he had finally gone too far out this time and drowned. She pulls him away to buy him a margarita, insisting that he has a lot of gossip to catch up on, and Eric shoots Trent an amused, apologetic look as he’s dragged away. Trent disappears into the crowd, and Eric tries to handle Irene’s torrent of questions about his work, and London, and the weather and his love life, Ruben joining in the interrogation as well. He keeps catching glimpses of Trent over his drink, flitting in and out of the background, catching his eye and shaking his head as Trent attempts to wrestle off his exuberant friend who’s trying to get him to moonwalk on the dance floor. 

Trent finds him again an hour later. He surprises Eric, slinking up behind him and making him jump, and puts a hand on his shoulder, leaning over to talk in his ear. His breath smells of tequila and he sounds as drunk as Eric feels, his schoolmates having done well to catch him up to their level. “You’ve got smokes?” Trent says, raising his voice to be heard above Camila Cabello. “I’ll get us some,” Eric shouts back, and presses his hand to Trent’s hip unnecessarily as he passes him.

The cool of the night air on the beach is welcome after the sweaty bar. Eric offers Trent one of the cigarettes he’s stolen from Ruben, stuffing another one between his lips and flicking open the lighter. Trent’s looking at him, and he’s lit up by the moonlight, falling on the contours of his cheekbones and lighting up his eyes. Eric takes him in, and steps into his space. Trent’s eyes stay on him as Eric carefully lights his cigarette.

“Thanks,” Trent says, when he’s sucked in a drag. Eric lingers close a fraction more than he needs to. When he pulls back his hand brushes against Trent’s, and he feels stirred by a drunken boldness.

“What?” Trent whispers, when Eric doesn’t move away, lowering his cigarette to his side. Eric shakes his head, feeling looser and easier than he has in weeks, and steps in a little more, leaning in and pressing his lips to Trent’s. 

Trent smells of smoke and tastes of tequila, and his lips are soft. The kiss is a bit sloppy, both of them struggling to focus it, but it is lingering and sweet and a little bit sexy, Eric’s hands on Trent’s hips, Trent’s on his arms, feeling the sand dig underneath their bare feet. Trent runs a hand up Eric’s back, and Eric shivers with more than just the cold of the night sea breeze. 

Eric keep kissing him like this, intense and involved, until someone comes out, and they quickly pull away. It’s Trent’s friend, Jesse, and Jesse laughs, raising his hands up in the air and telling them loudly, don’t let him interrupt them. Trent rolls his eyes when Jesse goes back inside. “It’ll be all he can talk about tomorrow,” Trent says, and Eric laughs. “That’s tomorrow’s problem,” he says, and it makes Trent smirk, putting a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him back in. 

When Eric wakes up, he’s temporarily disoriented. His head feels woolly and heavy, and for once the Portuguese sun feels unwelcome, making him groan when it pours in through the windows. 

He takes a second to recognize his surroundings, focusing his gaze on the upsettingly pink walls of their AirBnB, and another to recover from the shock of a warm body next to him in bed. Trent stirs when Eric moves heavily on the bed, and gives Eric a slow, confused smile when he blinks awake and registers him there. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, and Eric grins. He puts a hand on Trent’s waist, over the covers, and Trent rolls to his side, duvet falling to reveal his bare chest. Flashes of last night come back to Eric; kissing down that chest, and the way Trent gasped when Eric ducked between his legs, and it prompts him to tug Trent closer.

“Good morning,” Trent says, and Eric leans in for a kiss. Trent lets him, soft and yielding, and before long, Eric has Trent on his back again, getting another flash back to pressing heavy and drunken on top of him last night, fucking slowly into him. 

His stomach interrupts their making out, growling loudly. Eric groans in objection, and Trent giggles, shoving Eric on to his back and sitting up. “Think there’s some cereal downstairs,” he says, and Eric grabs at him. “Only if we get to come here after.”

They stay in bed till lunch, distracting themselves from the hangover with lazy morning sex. By the afternoon, everyone begins to slowly emerge from their rooms, barely concealing their smirks when Trent and Eric come out together. Irene makes fun of him for most of their long afternoon walk out by the sea, monopolising him to herself, and Eric only gets time alone with Trent again when they sneak a quick kiss in the room when it’s time to get back and pack.

He gives Trent his number before they part ways. The English boys are taking the train to Porto that night, and Eric has a flight back to London a day later. Irene and Ruben come back to his parents’ after, chatting happily with his mum and almost being knocked off their chairs by the excitable dogs. They press Eric about Trent, and ask him if he has anyone else back in England, or if he’s single now. “Single,” Eric confirms, firmly, and bats Irene off when she starts imitating the noises she heard from their bedroom, shushing her with a laugh. 

Late April in England is mercifully beautiful, so it doesn’t seem as jarring when he comes back from home. Toby’s moving in the weekend after he flies back, which keeps him occupied, working through the endless morass of his post-holiday inbox by day, and helping Toby haul suitcases up the stairways in the evenings.

Everything feels lighter since he left, and it isn’t just because of the comforting buzz in his pocket whenever Trent texts. They’ve kept in touch since Lisbon: a text from Eric when he spots _ The Last Thing He Wanted _ at the bookstore at the airport, a video from Trent when Jesse wipes out comically while attempting a tricksy maneuver on his board in the ocean. Eric gives Trent restaurant recommendations for Porto, and Trent texts him back pictures of their adventures in turn, making Eric feel a familiar longing when he sees seaside sunsets and fresh fish and custard tarts by the coast.

He makes a grand reentry with the boys at the pub. It’s quiz night, and the boys are already tipsy when he arrives. Sonny yells at him in greeting, with his huge grin that makes it difficult to tell if he’s excited or mad, asking him where he’s been and why he hasn’t answered any of their texts. 

Eric makes his apologies, doing his handshake with Sonny, cuffing Victor in a cuddle and accepting Moussa’s offer of red wine. It’s easy to get back into the swing of it, and by round two he’s tipsy, arguing impassioned with Serge about whether it was Hans Zimmer or Yann Tiersen on the soundtrack for _ Amelie. _

He catches up with Sonny when they go to buy the next round at the break. Sonny tells him about his plans to go on holiday for a friend’s wedding in Seoul next month, and Eric tells him about his trip. 

“Have you told Dele you’re back yet?” Sonny asks, and Eric raises an eyebrow. 

“Not yet -- why?” he says, and bites his lip. “Has he asked?” 

“Like, twice, man,” Sonny laughs. “When he came to Uno night last week. And he texted me. Asking if I knew why you were ghosting him,” he adds, and Eric feels a twist in his tummy. “Are you ghosting him?” Sonny asks, and Eric shakes his head. “I thought you two were -- at the party--” 

“We’re not,” Eric shakes his head, and mumbles. “But I’m not ghosting him either. I just -- didn’t keep in touch with anyone while I was away.” 

“That’s what I told him,” Sonny says. “You should text him though.” 

Coco leans over and interrupts, admonishing them both to focus, and asking if either of them knows whether Oslo is further north than Reykjavik. Serge shouts insistently over him before Eric can answer, saying he thinks the answer is Stockholm. Eric takes a surreptitious peek at his phone under their table while they’re arguing, pulling open Whatsapp.

The last text Dele sent was right before Easter, and it just says ‘_ ?’. _ Eric stares at it, guilty, and types and erases a few times before he settles on: _ Hi, long time no talk? _

He puts his phone away when someone tells him to watch it, they don’t want their winning streak to be jeopardized by accusations of cheating, and laughs and raises his hands in apology. He feels unsettled the rest of the round, jiggling his feet restlessly. He volunteers to get the next round when they take a break, and checks his phone as soon as he gets to the bar.

Trent’s made him download an app on his phone back when he was finally heading back to Liverpool, texting Eric bored at the airport. It’s a chess game that they can play long distance, and it usually makes Eric smile when he gets the notification, a little beep on his phone alerting him that Trent’s moved his bishop to D5. This time, however, he ignores the little message that tells him white has played its turn, and checks his messages anxiously instead. Dele’s read the message, two blue ticks underneath it, but he hasn’t replied, and Eric stares at it before sighing and pocketing his phone. 

They come third in the quiz. They each get a six pack of the pub’s own craft beer as a prize, and the joy and triumphant hugging that follows is mercifully distracting, Eric joining in the drunken singing with Sonny and Serge as they walk arm in arm out into the pleasant spring night. 

Eric’s grumpy when he heads in to work the next day, mildly hungover and irritable when he wakes up to no new messages except from the family group chat. There’s a notification when he’s on the tube, but it’s just Trent again, moving his queen to E7 and capturing Eric’s thoughtless rook. _ You got me _ , he texts Trent one-handed when he emerges overground, and Trent replies with a ;) _ caught someone snoozing _. 

Work is always a little more miserable right after a holiday. Eric’s inbox is spilling over with too many emails, and it keeps him distracted, skipping lunch to help an managing associate complete a filing, and moodily scrolling the BBC with an egg sandwich at five o’clock, one eye on his phone. 

It’s only when Eric’s catching a taxi back, gone nine, that he gets a reply. He jumps at the notification, frowning as he opens it. 

_ hey. _

Eric waits for the follow up, watching the car roll through Shoreditch, crowds lining up already outside the low lit hipster restaurants. They get to Highbury, and Dele still hasn’t said anything else.

_ Sorry I didn’t reply to your earlier messages, _ Eric finally types. _ I went to Portugal. _

He nearly drops the phone when it beeps just as he’s getting out of the taxi, but it’s Harry, asking when he’s coming over to the new place for dinner. Eric is in the middle of promising to stop by on the weekend when the reply he wants finally comes, and it’s once again frustratingly stilted.

_ its cool _, Dele has said, and this time Eric doesn’t wait for him to follow up. It feels stupid to have this out by text, so he shakes his head, typing one handed as drops his backpack by the door and heads to his bedroom.

_ So. Now that I’m back. Am I going to see you? _

He half doesn’t expect a reply for the next twenty four hours, dropping his phone off in his bed and disappearing into the bathroom. He resolves not to look at it till he’s changed and brushed, settling in with his book and switching on the lamp. He only does when he’s ready to put it on charge, clicking quickly when he sees the unread message.

Eric suggests Friday evening at the Brownswood by the station and gets there ten minutes early. He orders them two pints, sitting tensely by the window and peering through the dark and the rain for Dele. He comes ten minutes late, looking irate and damp, pulling his hood down and slinking up to the table when he spots Eric.

He nods thanks when Eric pushes the Maltsmiths towards him, and Eric feels the frustration dissipate into nervousness. The silence between them is magnified by the shouting of a group of students beside them, cursing and slapping the tables when Burnely concede to Everton. 

“How was Portugal?” Dele says, finally. The question is stiff, mutinously polite, and Eric has to strain over Steve McManaman getting overexcited about a corner to hear his mumbling. Eric takes a moment to reply, pushing around the worn bar coaster on the table, picking at the scraps of blue plastic near the pub logo. 

“Alright,” he says, finally. “Nice, actually. Really nice.” 

“I didn’t realise you were going,” Dele says, and it sounds even more sullen. Eric feels a pinch of irritation, shrugging his shoulders. “Just went to see my family and my mates,” he says, and it’s short. “It was a bit of a last minute decision.” 

“Sonny told me,” and Eric finally looks at Dele’s face. It doesn’t match his tone, sour and pinched; he looks hurt, gaze focused on his glass and lower lip pushed out, shaking his head. “I thought you had just decided never to speak to me again.” 

“Sorry,” Eric says, after a pause. “I was --” he starts, and when Dele finally looks up at him, Eric exhales. “I didn’t reply to your texts. I should have.” He continues when Dele stays quiet. “I just -- I was upset.” 

“Are you still upset?” 

“Not like I was a couple of weeks ago,” Eric says, shaking his head. “Del--”

“Don’t tell me you don’t want to be my friend anymore,” Dele says, interrupting him. His frown trembles, eyes big and worried, and Eric has never seen him like this. “Please.” 

“I’m not,” Eric says, quickly, and registers Dele’s visible relief. “I’m -- Del. I’m not here to tell you that. I’m just here to talk.

“After -- just after that night. I wasn’t upset at you, I wasn’t blaming you. I felt -- just, had all of these feelings for you and I felt really stupid about the way it all came out.”

There’s another shout beside them, and Eric is startled, distracted from his focus on Dele’s face. The students are groaning and Everton are two goals up, and Eric shakes his head at them before turning back to Dele. Dele ducks his head back down, staring down at his nearly finished pint, swirling it around, fidgety and unsure. 

“Sorry,” Eric says, quietly, and pushes his chair forward, leaning in closer to talk to Dele. 

“It was really horrible to find out from the boys at the pub,” Dele says quietly. “That you went away.” 

Eric feels vaguely sick at his expression, reeling back the horrible urge to reach out and hold Dele’s hand. He just shifts forward uselessly in his chair instead, nearly falling out of it, and both his hands are too close to Dele’s now, stretching out his fingers futilely. Dele looks at them, and Eric shakes his head. 

“I didn’t realise it would upset you this much,” he says, softly. 

“If you need space you tell someone,” Dele says, averting his gaze and shaking his head. “You don’t just leave. You can’t just leave like that,” he says, with a surprising forcefulness. 

“Del,” Eric says, and gives in to his desire to take Dele’s hand. It’s just a brief squeeze, and Dele only lets him keep it there for a second before he pulls it back. “I overreacted,” Eric continues, and his voice is still gentle. “I got upset. I shouldn’t have done that without at least sending you a text.

“You’re a good mate. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Dele finally nods, and tells Eric that it’s okay. His voice sounds a bit funny, and he shakes away Eric’s offer of a hug, though he does give him a quick, conciliatory smile. 

“Are you okay?” Eric asks, and Dele says he’s fine. He pats the pockets of his jeans, and Eric watches him slide off his seat, nodding towards the door. 

“Thank you for saying you’re sorry,” he says, and his voice still sounds funny. “D’you -- I’m going for a smoke,” he says, and turns on his heel before Eric can reply. “I’ll be back.” 

Dele takes a good ten minutes to return, and Eric gets another round and some chips while he’s waiting, feeling suddenly tired and hungry with the unexpected stir of feelings through the evening. The food arrives before Dele does, and he distracts himself half heartedly eating them and playing chess with Trent, who’s just moved his bishop straight into his knight’s firing line. 

“Oh my god,” Dele says, and it starts Eric out of his focus on Trent capturing his knight. “Are you actually playing chess right now?” 

Eric switches off the app, placing his phone on the table. Dele’s eyes look a bit red, but his expression is clearer than it has been, and his smile is readier when Eric pushes forward the crisps. “And you got food?” 

“Let me guess, you’re going to call me fat and boring?” Eric asks, and Dele says he should be grateful he isn’t also going to call him ugly. “There he is,” Eric laughs, and it makes Dele grin a little. “He’s back now. I’ve missed you,” Eric adds, and it’s sincere. 

Dele shakes his head, kicking Eric under the table and telling Eric he didn’t miss him, and Eric grins. “Can we catch up? What have you been up to while I was gone?”

“You eat so loudly,” Dele scowls, when Eric crunches on a handful of fries, and the normalcy is reassuring. Eric nods at him to go on, and Dele shrugs, telling him that it’s been the same as ever. “Got a new customer. Went to some of Che’s gigs. Nearly got fired at work and nearly quit.” 

Eric frowns, and Dele shrugs at him, stealing a crisp from Eric’s bag. “It’s not a big deal. It’s a shit place to work, anyway, JD. Manager’s just got it in for me because I keep showing up late.” Dele laughs, and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess just having trouble waking up early.”

“Do I need to buy you an alarm clock?” Eric attempts to joke, and Dele smiles wanly. “Del -- is there something actually going on?” 

“Nah,” Dele says, and quickly shakes his head. “Shit week, whatever.” 

“Sorry it’s been a shit week,” Eric says, and feels the tug of guilt. “And sorry I wasn’t around for it,” he adds, soft. He opens his mouth to try and add something else, trying to think of something else to say, but he’s interrupted by his phone loudly buzzing on the tabletop. It’s a notification from Trent; Eric only skims it before he takes the phone off the table, strangely embarrassed even though it was only some sort of joke on his chess prowess, ended with a laughing emoji and a kiss.

He doesn’t know if Dele’s seen it, when he looks back up Dele’s expression is unreadable. There’s another silence, before Dele nods at him, taking a sip of his beer. “Tell me about Portugal,” he says, and points the rim of his glass at Eric. “Did they kick you out for being too British yet?” he adds, and from Dele, it’s an olive branch. 

It’s mostly normal with them after that. Dele doesn’t send him as many messages as he did before everything, but Eric occasionally gets memes sent to him at odd hours of the night: silly videos of monkeys picking unsuspecting people’s pockets or compilations of spectacular football fails. Dele texts him on the following Friday to ask if he’s coming to five-a-side the next week, too, and Eric confirms that he is. 

It’s nice to see the boys again, and the football is competitive, Eric getting nutmegged by a tricksy nineteen-year-old who looks even skinnier than Dele. He frowns as Dele nearly doubles over giggling, and kicks at him when the ref blows the whistle for time. 

“You’re my teammate,” he informs him, and Dele grins, putting an arm around him and patting his shoulder, conciliatory. “My loss is your loss.” 

“Should have caught that on camera, mate. That was such a clean ‘meg.” 

“Whatever,” Eric grumbles, and Dele doesn’t take his arm away. Eric agrees to join the boys for a drink after, and Dele sits next to him in the booth. The boys are boisterous after a well-fought draw, and Eric has to tell Dele to pipe down several times when Dele launches into an enthusiastic assessment of all of Eric’s mistakes Dele had to cover for in order to salvage the team’s face.

Dele starts flagging quicker than he normally does, trying to stifle a yawn with the back of his hand before they’ve even finished the second round. Eric frowns, glancing at the time, his phone telling him it’s barely past nine, and then at Dele. 

“Sorry,” Dele says, and stifles another one. “I think it’s your chat that’s doing it, mate.”

“Still not sleeping better?” Eric asks, ignoring him. He gently knocks his knee against Dele’s, and Dele looks at him, looking surprised. “You said, last week. You were having trouble sleeping.” 

“You remembered,” Dele says, and Eric frowns, saying of course he did. Dele shrugs. “I dunno. No. Not really.” 

“Have you tried melatonin?” Eric asks, and it’s Dele’s turn to frown. Eric grins at his expression, and Dele asks if Eric is trying to take over his job. “Nah, it’s natural. Just a natural sleep aid. I can get you some, I have some lying around.” 

“You have trouble sleeping too?”

“Only when work gets stressful,” Eric says, and notes how soft Dele looks. “Do you want to come by and pick it up Friday night?” 

Dele bites his lip, and says, “Actually - I have a thing Friday night. A gig.” 

_ With Che _, Eric thinks.

“With Che,” Dele adds. “And another in Bristol on Saturday, so I’m staying over so it’s easier to catch the train.” 

Eric only realises he’s stayed awkwardly quiet for too long when Dele nudges him, and Eric hastens to speak. “No, it’s fine -- I’m out this weekend, too.” 

He’d been up late, the other night, coming back home from dinner at Harry’s new place, filled with beer and Katie’s roast chicken, when Trent had texted. He’d just defeated Eric in a second straight game on the chess app, crowing at Eric gently with a string of triumphant emojis and Eric had protested, complaining that it was too hard to see the pieces properly on the small screen.

_ Guess we’ll just have to play in person then_, Trent had said, and Eric had only hesitated briefly, before he had said, _ still want to come down sometime? _

“On a date, actually,” he adds, and Dele says, “oh--” after a split second’s pause. “Oh right.” 

“This guy I met in Lisbon,” Eric says, and he doesn’t know why he sounds apologetic. “He’s English, though. Scouse. He’s coming down to meet me from Liverpool,” he supplies, needlessly, in addition, and Dele takes a long sip of his beer. 

“And he’s staying over your house all weekend?” Dele says, when he puts the beer down. He arches an eyebrow, and Eric can’t tell if he’s disapproving. “Wow, that’s intense.” 

“It’s not intense,” Eric protests. “I mean - he’s just -- he doesn’t have to stay over. He could take the train back if he wanted. We’re meeting by noon.” 

“The train back to Liverpool,” Dele says, skeptically. “Casual.” 

“It’s not like that,” Eric says, and doesn’t know why he’s fighting it so much. “It’ll just be nice to see him again, it’s. It’s whatever,” he finishes, somewhat lamely. 

“Romantic, Diet,” Dele says, eyebrow still raised.

“Whatever,” Eric repeats, a little bit more insistent. “I’ll get us the next round,” he says, and cuffs Dele gently on the back of his neck before he gets up. 

Eric’s nervous when he gets to Euston. He reaches there too early, looking at arrivals boards for the 11:42 from Lime Street. He goes into the Waterstones by the platform as he’s waiting, not registering the blurb at the back of the bestseller he’s mindlessly picked up. He checks his phone when he comes out, scrolling through the messages he’s last exchanged with Trent, clicking on his profile photo on WhatsApp, a picture of him holding up his dog and grinning. Dele’s voice is still on the back of his mind, and he tries to ignore it, pocketing his phone and checking the arrival boards again, which informs him that Trent’s train has arrived on Platform 14.

Any thought that Trent would look different away from the lovely Portuguese sun and in the cold, grey London afternoon is dispelled when he steps through the barriers. He looks around, before he spots Eric, waving. He’s in a hoodie and jeans, tall and grinning, and he gives Eric a quick hug when he walks over. 

“Alright?” he says, and his accent sounds even more scouse than Eric remembered, soft and lazy and sweet. 

“Hey,” Eric says, “long time,” and it sounds stupider when he says it out loud. Trent just laughs, though, and pats Eric’s back, nodding towards the exits. “You ready to show me what London has to offer?” 

The ride to Southbank is a bit quiet. Trent tells him about uni, and how Jesse and Macus are doing, and what he’s reading now that he’s finished _ Open City _ (_Moonglow_) and he promises to lend it to Eric when he’s done). Eric tells him about his work, and about his new flatmate, and besting his brothers in the family fantasy football tournament, making Trent laugh and roll his eyes when Eric boasts of his intricate knowledge of American football and the Philadelphia 

They spend the afternoon at the National Gallery, taking turns to pick rooms they want to go into. Eric chooses the van Goghs, Monets and Turners, and Trent the Vermeers and Velazqueses and Rembrandts. They walk quietly through the art, making occasional comments when they stop by a piece one of them likes. 

Eric tells him he knows a nice pasta place for dinner, and he’s already made the reservation. Trent laughs, teasing him about it, and Eric worries when they walk in that the setting is too intimate and romantic, with low lights and candles at the tables. Trent doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles, and it doesn’t feel forced, especially once the wine is poured and the food arrives. They’re loud and full and happy by the time the meal is done, and Eric tries not to let his gaze rest too long on the candlelight shadows playing across Trent’s face.

They walk back by the river after. It’s starting to get cooler, the May weather chaotic as usual, a harsh wind making Eric shiver. Eric laughs when Trent offers up his jacket, half tongue in cheek -- “I’m a gentleman, me” -- and says or could cuddle Eric, instead, grinning when wrapping his arms around him in the middle of the footpath. Eric nearly stumbles, pushing him off with a laugh, slightly red and asking Trent what he’s doing. 

They stop at the best spot to take pictures of the skyline. The buildings are lit up, lights reflecting across the water, all in a neat row: the Shard, the Walkie Talkie, the BT tower and the Gherkin, glittering in the moonless evening. Trent tells him he’s not been here for years, and not at night, like this. 

“It’s nice,” he says, smiling at Eric, and Eric smiles too. “This whole evening’s been so nice.” Trent’s looking at Eric invitingly, and Eric doesn’t need to be asked, leaning in and pressing their lips together in a kiss. 

“So,” Trent whispers, when they pull away, and Eric laughs softly at his meaningful expression. “The trains back home stop running at… fuck, I think it was five minutes ago.” He makes a show of looking at his phone, and Eric shakes his head, grabbing him with an arm around his neck.

“You know a good hotel in London?” Trent asks, with feigned innocence, and Eric thinks he knows somewhere even better, leaning in to give him a quick, firm peck on the lips.

Work eases off with the onset of summer, as half-term and warm weather make everyone sluggish. Eric gets most of his evenings free over the next week, taking sunset runs through Finsbury Park and scrolling through the New York Times cooking app for new recipes to try out for dinner. He spends more time with Toby, getting to know his new flatmate over cooking and catching up on _ Billions _ and _ University Challenge_. Toby is easy company, runs a microbrewery in Hoxton and tells Eric far too many details about craft beer. 

Jan and Mousa come over one evening, armed with a nice Rioja and Toby’s favourite belgian chocolates for dessert. Toby and Eric finish up the risotto while Jan and Mousa set the table, occasionally popping in to tell Eric if they think it needs more pepper or saffron, or if they want a refill of the warm bread Toby bought from the artisan bakery close to his pub. 

Eric’s humming along to the Moroccan jazz playlist Mousa’s put on in the kitchen when Jan comes in, and raises an eyebrow. “Someone’s in a good mood,” he says, and Eric nudges him, grinning. “It’s your company, Jantje.” 

“Even Mousa doesn’t get as cheerful around me,” Jan says, and puts an arm around him, leaning down and tasting from Eric’s pan. “More parm, do you think?” 

“Go and chop the parsley,” Eric grumbles, but he smiles when Jan follows his instruction, deftly rolling and chopping the herbs with a chef’s ease. 

“Is it the boy?” Jan asks, when he shifts Eric away so he can tip in the parsley. “The one you left with from the party.”

“If I say no, are you going to tell me you told me so?” 

“So not him,” Jan chuckles, and puts a hand on Eric’s shoulder to reach over and grab the pepper mill. He cracks black pepper over the plates Eric fills up, shoulder to shoulder with him. Eric notes, unbidden, that he still smells of the sage cologne he wore when they used to date, and shakes it off. 

“I’m dating someone else now, though,” he says, and grabs the plates to get to the table. 

“Hang on,” Mousa says, thanking Eric when he hands him a plate. “Are we talking about the boy at the party? This risotto is delicious, by the way, Eric.” 

“Not that one,” Jan informs, sitting next to Mousa and exchanging a quick, sweet kiss that somehow still has the capacity to make Eric’s stomach briefly, painfully clench. 

“I met him on holiday, in Lisbon,” Eric says. “You’ll approve, he loves Murakami.”

“A man of taste,” Mousa nods. 

“You’d have to be, to date Eric, no?” 

“You’re such a charmer,” Eric informs Jan. He scrolls through his phone to show them a picture Trent posted on instagram, a photo Eric took, standing in front of a magnificent Turner. Mousa and Jan make approving noises, Toby teasingly asking if he could expect to see him a lot more around the flat now. Before Eric pockets his phone, he notices a notification from Dele, and quickly clicks on it.

_ how was ur date???? _ Dele’s written, and he’s sent a screenshot after, of Eric’s instagram story, a picture of the National Gallery on a gloomy Saturday afternoon, towering over a busy Trafalgar Square. _ Is this where u took him?? To jack off to some pic of six pack jesus together. _

Eric stifles a snort despite himself, and replies when Toby and Jan go to the kitchen to get more wine and dessert. 

_ You’re not a fan of art gallery dates? _

Dele replies immediately, with several yawning emojis, and one of a blank faced emoji and a gun pointed towards it. Eric replies with several laughing faces, telling Dele some of the art was quite boring, but there are some galleries in London that he absolutely loved. 

_ Which ones are ur favourite, Diet_, Dele sends. _ Tell me so i can make fun of them. _

_ I’ve got a better idea, _ Eric replies quickly, nodding thanks distractedly when Jan tops up his glass. _ Let me take you to see them next time you have a day off? :) _

“Okay, lovebird,” Jan says. “Enough texting lover boy at the table.” 

“Fuck off,” Eric says cheerfully, but he pockets his phone, taking a big sip of his wine and deciding it isn’t worth correcting Jan.

It turns out that Rothko inspires no great hidden love of art in Dele. Eric drags him to his favourite room at the Tate Modern, not even needing the map for directions, and Dele looks doubtful when he steps into it, staring around the dimly lit space with the gloomy and intense paintings adorning the walls. 

Eric shows him around them anyway, and tells him they’re best to take in if you just sit in the centre and absorb them for a little while. He feels Dele getting restless after a minute, eventually pulling his phone out. He doesn’t mind, eyes just trained on his favourite pieces; he only breaks into a small, private smile when he sees Dele eventually succumb, getting up to take a selfie in front of _ Black on Maroon_, _ 1958 _.

“I like them because they’re different from his other ones,” he explains, when he finally takes mercy on a restless Dele, and steers him out of the room, hand on his back. “He’s really good at getting a feeling out of you, and you can take it either as feeling really trapped and suffocated or feeling really still and at peace.” 

Dele hmms, noncommittal, but he’s looking at Eric when he speaks, intent on him. They wander around some of the other rooms before lunch, and Dele finds a favourite in the International Surrealist exhibit, mostly because there are an endless number of weird objects and creatures he can point at and tell Eric that they resemble him. He points at a creepy, pale hermit boy in a Fini, a bust of a bald man covered in clouds by Magritte and a ghastly abstraction of a bald soldier in a Yamashita before Eric finally breaks into a fond laugh when he points at a statue of an amorphous blob and excitably makes Eric take a photo standing right next to it. 

“Perfect,” he says, with pride and satisfaction, “That’s going on Instagram, then,” he adds, and deftly moves the phone away when Eric tries to steal it from him, trying not to laugh too loudly and get glared at by the guard in the corner.

Dele asks if they can get dinner together after. They find a pub with a view of the river, and Eric feels in heaven there: May sunsets so glorious and late, seeing the lights flick off the river as they dive into their pints and burgers. 

Dele asks Eric why he likes art so much, and Eric thinks a bit before he explains. 

“I guess my mum was always really into it,” he shrugs, over a mouthful of fries. “She always used to take me along to galleries and stuff when I was little. So it grew from there, really.” 

“Do all your siblings like art, too?”

“Not all of them. I have a sister who does. She paints, too.” 

“I wish I could do something like that,” Dele says, musing. “Dunno like. Art or music or something. Like Ché loves music so much, I wish I could do that with something.” 

“I tried to learn the guitar once,” Eric says, and smiles when Dele giggles. “Yeah, you can guess it didn’t go so well. I thought I was so cool, trying to be in a band with my mates in high school.” 

Dele insists on being shown pictures, and Eric pulls his phone out against his better judgment. “My brother sent a few photos he found in the house a couple of weeks ago,” Eric says, and regrets it instantly when Dele’s eyes widen in pure delight when he sees the photos. He tries, vainly, to hold the phone away from Dele, but Dele snatches it from him before Eric can react, zooming in on his face, and cackling. “Curtains,” he says, barely making the words out between his high pitched, silly laughs. “Curtains, Dier, _ curtains _\--” 

“Give me that back-- hey, what are you doing it? Stop sending that photo!” Eric grabs for Dele again, but Dele switches hands, so Eric is left uselessly grabbing at the empty one. For a brief moment his hand holds Dele’s, secure and familiar, before Dele withdraws it. Eric doesn’t know if he spots a slight blush on Dele’s face, but Dele shakes it off quickly, grinning and handing Eric’s phone back.

“Don’t worry, I only sent it to myself,” he smirks, straightening himself on his seat. “I will see what I want to do with it later.”

“You’re the worst,” Eric says, shaking his head. “Remind me why I like you so much again?” 

It’s late when they walk back to the tube together, taking the long route across the bridge. They look over the skyline lighting up in the evening over the Thames, and Eric asks Dele if he’s been sleeping better. “Did the melatonin work?” 

“Dunno,” Dele shrugs, and he looks apologetic. “I tried it, but I’m not sure if it did anything. It’s getting better, though,” he adds, quickly, when he sees Eric’s expression. “I’m trying.” 

“I’m not getting memes from you at 2 a.m.,” Eric laughs, putting an arm around him. “So that’s a start, you’re sleeping earlier.” 

“I’m still awake,” Dele says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t send you anything ‘cos you’ll tell me off.” He ducks away, laughing a little, when Eric says “_ Dele _!” and apologises. “Sorry, sorry -- I’m trying, I’m trying.” 

“Don’t make me come and confiscate your phone.” 

“You’ll come all the way to my house just to confiscate my phone?”

“I’ll climb through a window if I have to,” Eric says, and Dele snorts, telling him it sounds like way too much effort. “I’d do it for you,” Eric says, and goes pink when he realises how it sounds. “To keep you in line,” he amends, quickly, trying to sound stern, but he thinks Dele heard the sincerity. Dele ducks down, fighting a smile and shaking his head, and says, quietly, “You’re so good to me, ain’t you?” 

“We’re mates,” Eric says, soft, and Dele lets him ruffle his hair this time. “It’s what mates do.” 

Trent texts Eric again on the weekend. It’s a photo of a van Gogh on loan to the Musée D’Orsay, saying, _ just missed this one by a week! _Eric’s washing up when he sees it, thumbing his phone with a soapy hand and sending a thumbs up emoji. 

He’s dried and put away the plates when another notification pops up from Trent, and Eric’s eyes widen slightly when he opens it. Trent’s taken a picture of himself, lying on his bed, and his phone is held up high so you can take all of him in: legs spread out, and his t-shirt ridden up so you can catch a glimpse of his tummy, faintly defined. His jeans are unbuttoned, only the slightest peek of his boxers visible, and his thumb is hooked on the waistband, tugging it teasingly down. 

_ What do u think_, comes a message, shortly after, and Eric swallows. He heads over, quickly, into his room, and sits at the edge of his bed, setting it aside. _ You’re so sexy_, he sends, after a beat, and then adds a _ ;) _ for good measure. 

Trent sends him another picture, and Eric goes red; it’s far more explicit. _ Fuck, _ he replies instantly, and Trent says _ thinking of last weekend_. 

Eric closes his eyes and pictures it too: Trent, on his back, one hand uselessly grappling at Eric, and the other holding the headboard, quiet, shaky gasps while Eric had his dick in his mouth. Or Trent, with his legs wrapped around him, groaning in Eric’s ear as Eric thrust deep into him, muffling himself with his lips to Eric’s neck. _ God_, Eric types, clumsier now that it’s one-handed. _ You turn me on. _

_ Send me a pic_, Trent says, and Eric’s hand shakes when he raises up the phone. The room is dimly lit, and he thinks the selfie ends up being blurry, only half his head in the frame. He’s never sent one of these before, and he prays that images actually disappear on Instagram, and his dick isn’t being stored in a server somewhere in northern California. He’s distracted out of the worry, however, when Trent replies again, near instant.

_ Can’t wait till u fuck me again_, he has said, and it’s followed by a video. It’s only a few seconds long, but it’s all Eric needs, touching himself faster to it, biting his lip to keep himself from groaning out loud when he comes. 

There’s a click on the lock while Eric’s still lying in bed, trousers pushed down to his knees and shirt ridden up, panting to catch his breath. Eric scrambles up, stumbling into the ensuite to clean up. He washes his face and stares at himself in the mirror, trying to gauge if he’s too flushed. When he gets downstairs, Toby nods at him, and Eric nods awkwardly, running a hand through his hair and asking if Toby wanted any of the curry he made for dinner. 

Trent messages him a question mark, asking him where he’s gone, and Eric replies quickly, telling him he almost got Eric into trouble there. Trent sends him several laughing faces, and then, _ maybe in person next weekend? ;) _

_ Can’t, sorry _ , Eric messages, and puts the kettle on. He grabs a tin of biscuits on the counter and eats one absently, staring at his phone. _ I’m at my sister’s next weekend. _

His phone beeps twice when he makes his way to the living room, settling next to Toby on the couch. Trent’s texted a sad face and said, _ let me know when you’re free next! :), _and then there’s a message from Dele. 

It’s three selfies of Dele, each one against a different Rothko, and Eric laughs. _ Which one is better? _ he’s asked, and Eric grins to himself, replying. 

_ Which Rothko is better?, _he says, and gets an eye-rolling face for his troubles. 

_ No, _ Dele says, _ which one do I look better in. For my IG. _

Eric thinks of replying with a joke, but there’s a picture where Dele’s oversized maroon sweater complements the painting behind him in a way Rotkho would approve of, and he’s preening at the camera, high cheekbones and soft eyes on full display. There’s a barely concealed smirk playing on his lips, and Eric sends it back to Dele. _ This one _ he says, and adds, after a brief hesitation, _ :) _.

Dele sends him a link after he’s posted it, commanding him to like it. _ Museums are good backgrounds for selfies_, he sends to Eric, _ maybe we should go to another one this weekend? _

_ I’m out, _ Eric says, and feels disappointed. _ Not this weekend. _

_ Oh, _ Dele says, and a beat later, _ your Liverpool boyfriend? _

_ I’m actually going over to my sister’s to babysit, _ Eric types quickly, in correction. He takes a sip of his tea, staring at the message and the little blue ticks indicating Dele’s read it, and adds, before Dele can reply. _ Hey - do you want to come with? _

  
  
  


Eric doesn’t know if Dele was actually serious when he agreed to come down with him to Guildford, but on Friday night Dele texts him to say he’s asked for Saturday off, and asks him when he wants to leave. 

Dele is mostly quiet on the way there, like he was at the bus ride to Mousa’s, and Eric talks to fill the silence. “You’ll like it there,” he tells Dele. “My niece and nephew are really sweet. And it’s a lovely place to spend a weekend.”

His sister and her husband leave shortly after they arrive, thanking them both profusely and giving Eric and the kids a tight hug, telling them to be good for uncle Eric and uncle Dele. It’s quiet and comfortable in their large country house; it always is, with soft lights and a large, comfortable couch in the living room, photos of the family everywhere, fresh flowers in the vases, kids’ art on the fridge, toys scattered on the floor and the family golden retriever sniffing under the dining table for snacks. 

Eric gives Dele a quick tour and then seats everyone in the kitchen while he makes the pasta for dinner, keeping a watchful eye on the three of them at the table, the baby on his high chair and Dele seated opposite his three-year-old niece. 

It takes Eric by surprise that Dele’s good with her; he had looked suspicious when Eric brought out the baby, who’s small and particularly weepy in the early evening, but he takes to Eric’s niece quickly, watching her as she goes to get her stuffed toys from the playroom so she can introduce Dele to all of them. She’s chatty and Dele is too, sounding sincere and interested, questioning her in depth on why Mr. Frog got divorced from Mr. Turtle, and why puppy is her favourite toy. Eric feeds the baby his supper and watches them at the other end of the table, thinking that Dele looks less guarded, quieter and softer around the edges. 

When they put the kids to bed Eric worries that Dele’s bored already. He brings tea and biscuits to where Dele’s sat on the couch, and apologises as Dele yawns and flicks through the channels, settling on _ The Yorkshire Vet_. 

“Sorry?” Dele says, and frowns at him. “No -- I’m not -- this is nice. I just. I’m exhausted, that’s all. And don’t--” he adds, tipping his head towards Eric and giving him a small pout that makes Eric feel funny. “Say nothing about me staying up too much.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Eric says, and puts an arm around Dele, gently tapping the back of his head. “Just saying you can close your eyes if you want to. It’s pretty much bedtime.”

Dele scoffs at that, but before the episode is over, he falls asleep on the couch. His head isn’t quite on Eric’s shoulder, but it isn’t far off, and Eric can feel his hair brush against his shirt, the slight movement of Dele’s head against his arm along the couch. He looks over, and Dele looks so tired, eyes closed, the little frown on that he always has when he sleeps. 

Eric doesn’t wake him till the next episode is over as well, distractedly watching the vet completing a successful operation on police dog Thor. Dele’s slept through Eric’s sister coming back, being quiet when they see Dele’s eyes closed and body slumped, making their way upstairs. Dele looks cross and confused when he’s woken, a little pout on his face, and Eric gently ushers him to the spare bedroom, tucking him into the massive bed and drawing the duvet over him. 

“Where are you sleeping?” Dele mumbles, when he registers what’s happening. 

“I’m taking the couch,” Eric says, and interrupts Dele before he can say anything. “Not one word from you, Del boy.” 

“I can take the couch,” Dele says, shaking his head. “Or --,” he starts, then stops, eyeing Eric. “You can, um, sleep here.” 

Eric meets his eyes, and feels his stomach twist with an uncomfortable tug of want. “Nah,” he says, quickly, quietly. “My sister has a pull out, it’s really comfortable, I’ll be fine. Hey,” he adds, and Dele looks up. “Will you text me if you can’t sleep? Or not sleeping okay again? I can come up here and confiscate your phone. Read you a bedtime story,” he says, and Dele snorts. “I’ll use some of my niece’s story books.” 

Dele shakes his head, and Eric leans in to give him a hug. He worries for a second it’s too forward, pressing himself against Dele’s chest on the bed, but Dele wraps his arms around him too, and presses his face into Eric’s neck. 

“I had a really nice evening,” he mumbles, and his lips brush against Eric’s neck. “Your family is really nice.” 

“Thanks for babysitting with me,” Eric says softly, and when he pulls away, his lips feel dangerously close to Dele. He straightens up before he can think about it any more, and gives Dele a smile before he presses off the light. “Goodnight, Del.” 

He feels lightheaded when he comes out of Dele’s room, heading downstairs and feeling momentarily lost for purpose. He goes for his backpack, a book he’s been meaning to read stashed behind his laptop, and tries to distract himself on the pullout, propping his legs up and lying restlessly in the quiet. 

His sister interrupts when he’s somehow made it through the first ten pages, saying hello as she comes down from the stairs in her pyjamas. “Dele asleep?” she asks, and Eric nods yes, watching her go into the kitchen and emerge with two glasses and a bottle of wine.

“Catch me up, baby bro,” she says, sitting opposite him and snatching away his copy of _ No Logo _. “On work. Life. Everything. And tell me about the boy,” she adds, laughing as Eric groans theatrically and shakes his head. “I can tell when something is up.” 

Eric lets them get through the first glass of wine talking idly about his job and her kids before he gets really into it, sighing deeply as she refills them. “It’s not what you think,” he starts, and she raises an eyebrow. 

He ends up telling her more than he thought he would, in a low voice by the fireside, nearly making it to the end of the bottle; he tells her about sleeping together in the winter, asking Dele out, the rejection, the party, the humiliation, Lisbon, Trent. “So he doesn’t want a relationship with me,” he ends, shrugging his shoulders. “But it seems like he still wants us to be close.” 

She doesn’t sound judgmental about it like Harry and Jan did, and Eric wonders how she can be, with the Dele she met briefly today, soft and polite and exhausted. “He has a lot going on,” he explains, and she looks as soft about it as Eric feels. “Dunno. I think he’s kind of depressed. And his past doesn’t sound like it’s been easy. He doesn’t really talk about it much, but I guess that’s part of it, you know?” 

“Sounds like he needs a friend more than anything right now,” she says, and Eric nods. 

“I’m just trying to be that right now. Without crossing a line. Or mixing signals.” 

“Does he have feelings for you too?” she asks, and it takes Eric a long time to answer.

“I don’t think so,” he admits, quietly, finally. “He rejected me, like, twice,” he says, and laughs when she makes a face. “Romantic, I know. And he’s always spending the night over with his ex,” he adds, and she rolls her eyes. “I dunno, I was having dinner with Jan and Mousa the other night, and I was just thinking. I don’t need to get caught up in another guy who isn’t over his last relationship.” 

He doesn’t like the look on her face, pitying and sad, so he adds quickly, “I’m moving on though. Really. That guy in Portugal I told you about. Trent. I’m seeing him.” 

“Oh yeah,” she nods, “How’s that going?” 

“Okay,” Eric says, and feels bad when it comes out unenthusiastic. “No,” he corrects himself, “Good. Really good. He’s really cool.”

“Does Dele know?” she asks, and Eric sighs.

“Yeah,” he says, “We don’t talk about it that much, though. It’s a little awkward. Anyway,” he shrugs, “Trent’s good. He’s nice, he’s attractive, he’s smart. I like texting him. And hanging out with him. And sleeping with him,” he admits, and she laughs. “He’s invited me to Liverpool,” he says, and she looks at him seriously. 

“Are you going to go?” 

“Why not, right?”

“Don’t be that guy,” she says, and Eric raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you know. I dated someone long distance once. And he always expected me to come to him. It was so annoying. If you’re into him, go to Liverpool.” She eyes him, stern. “And if you don’t care enough about going to Liverpool, then don’t date him.” 

“Okay,” Eric grumbles. “I know you’re right, okay. I’ll go to Liverpool.” 

“You need to be kept in line. Plus, Liverpool is nice. He can show you all his favourite spots. So to speak,” she says, and sniggers. 

“_ Sis _,” Eric says, horrified, and it makes her laugh harder. Eric tells her he thinks that’s enough wine for her, and she gets up off the couch, telling him she ought to go to bed, anyway.

“Love you, little bro,” she says, and Eric says it back. “Now, stop being a dick,” she says on her way out, “And get those train tickets to Liverpool.” 

Eric lets Dele sleep in in the morning, and only goes up when he gets a text from him at around eleven, saying _ where are u diet _ and _ should I come down. _Eric comes in with his coffee, showered and wearing an old LSE hoodie he had left in his sister’s house a couple of months ago, knocking cautiously before he lets himself into the spare bedroom. Dele’s sitting up in bed, on his phone, shirtless and puffy cheeked, pillow creases on his face. He looks younger and smaller like this, without his chains or his attitude. 

“Is that tea,” Dele says, pathetically, eyeing Eric’s mug. “Is that for me?”

Eric hands over the mug to him, letting Dele take a sip, and laughs delightedly when Dele instantly makes a face, coughing, and cursing Eric out. “It’s coffee,” Dele says, coughing the taste out. “Disgusting. Fucking bitter and tastes like shit.”

Eric coos at his scowl, trying to pet Dele’s hair and getting shooed away for his efforts. “Come downstairs,” he says, “Let’s get some brunch.” 

“Are the others there?” 

“They’re taking the dog for a walk,” Eric says, and Dele considers it. “Do you like pancakes? I’m going to make them. The American kind, fat and fluffy.” 

“You’re fat and fluffy,” Dele grumbles, but he hops off the bed, looking around for his shirt. 

Downstairs, the light floods into the living room and the kitchen from the big French windows, and Eric sees Dele looking around while he helps him bring out the ingredients from the pantry.

“Your sister’s house is so nice,” he says, and Eric smiles. “Everything in it is so nice.” Dele touches the framed photos on the breakfast bar, and leans in to smell the lavenders in the vase. 

“Isn’t it?” Eric says, watching him as he tips the flour into the bowl. “It’s one of my favourite places to be.” 

“I can see you somewhere like this,” Dele muses. “It’s fancy. But it’s cosy, too.”

“Is that me? Fancy and cosy?”

“Well, you think you’re fancy, anyway,” Dele says, and Eric laughs. Dele comes over to the other side of the bar, into the kitchen, and peeks over Eric’s shoulder, where he’s mixing. Eric asks him if he slept okay, and Dele nods.

“Yes, thank you. That bed was so comfortable, I actually slept through the night.” Dele peers at the measuring jug Eric’s cracking eggs into, and asks him what he’s doing. Eric’s beginning to explain it, but he’s so distracted by Dele’s closeness he fumbles some eggshell into the jug, and Dele laughs meanly. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Fuck off. You’re just making me nervous.” 

He doesn’t have to look at Dele to know Dele’s smirking in triumph at that, feeling him hover closer as Eric successfully scoops some recalcitrant shell out. “I’m just interested,” Dele says, innocent, and Eric snorts. “I’ve never made pancakes before.” 

“Have you not?” Eric says, looking up at Dele, and Dele shrugs. “Oh wow.” Eric tips the beaten eggs into his flour and picks up the whisk. “It’s an important life skill, Delboy. Here,” he adds, turning to Dele as he begins to whip everything together. “Watch and learn from the expert.” 

“So the eggshells go in at which stage?” 

“Fuck _ off _,” Eric repeats, and Dele looks delighted at the reaction. Eric ignores him, pouring his liquids into his flour, and feels a sudden jolt when Dele moves closer, to rest his chin on Eric’s shoulder for a better view, wrapping his arms around him warmly. It feels shockingly intimate; more than sharing a bed with Dele ever did, and Eric tries to ignore the butterflies, focusing with a frown on smoothening the batter. 

“There’s lumps,” Dele points out, chin digging into Eric’s shoulder as he talks.

“There’s supposed to be,” Eric says, and shoos away a thought about how easy it would be to turn his head to the side and kiss Dele’s cheek. He takes a second too long before he dislodges Dele to get the frying pan. Dele moves off, disappointingly, leaning against the side of the counter and making friendly jibes as Eric puts the batter in the pan.

“The first one always comes out funny,” Eric grumbles, and then looks up at Dele, pointing the spatula at him. “Would you like to try and flip one?” 

Dele looks like he’s going to say no, but he eyes Eric, considering, before he takes it from him and nudges Eric with his hip to move aside. It’s Eric’s turn to hover now, too close, and he hesitates before putting a hand on the small of Dele’s back, telling him when to flip. “Careful it doesn’t burn,” he says, and Dele gives out a little cheer when he flips and it’s perfectly browned, Eric laughing as Dele does a triumphant dab.

“I knew I’d be better at this than you,” Dele says, and Eric rolls his eyes, nudging him again and telling him to shut it. 

Eric’s family return as they’re finishing up, his niece cheering loudly when she sees the high stack of fat pancakes in the center of the table, strawberries and maple syrup and whipped cream put by Eric in little bowls on the side. The dog trots up to Dele, tail wagging, and he eyes it mistrustfully, taking a seat by Eric’s niece instead and asking her about her walk. 

They meant to leave after breakfast, but they all get lazy after the food; they lounge around in the living room, four adults, two kids and one dog, absently enjoying the springtime sun and the Sunday morning cartoons till it becomes time for lunch. Eric’s brother in law insists on them trying his barbeque sandwiches, fixing up plates for them to eat in front of the TV with chips and coke and putting on the Palace game in the background. 

It’s only when they take the kids off for their afternoon naps that Eric gently pats Dele’s shoulder, arm around him on the couch, suggesting softly that they should make a move, because it’ll take them over an hour to get back home. Dele looks caught out, embarrassed; he nods quickly and agrees, telling Eric that he was sorry, he didn’t mean for them to stay so late. 

“Nah,” Eric says, quickly. “It’s been a really nice afternoon, hasn’t it? They loved having you around. Especially the little ones.” 

Dele smiles, ducking his head down. He falls quiet, and stays that way through the bus ride to the station and in the train, till Eric nudges him with his toe, the greens of the South London outskirts rolling by. 

“That was a really nice weekend,” he says, and Dele nods, nudging him back. “Yeah,” he says, and Eric smiles too. 

“It was nice,” Dele says. “Your family is really nice.” Dele looks out of the window, and then adds, voice dropping quieter, “You’re really lucky.” 

Eric feels something painful knot in him when Dele says it like that; his fingers stretch out on the train table, uselessly, again. “You’re always welcome, you know,” he says, and the smile that doesn’t reach Dele’s eyes tells Eric it sounds a bit hollow. “I mean it,” he says, with more urgency this time. “Like, you can always come when I’m going over to hers.”

“Okay,” Dele says, and his eyes are still fixed outside. Eric drops it and they ride to Waterloo in silence, quiet navigating through the platform onto the tube.

Dele mumbles a goodbye when they emerge at Seven Sisters, nodding vaguely towards the direction of his bus stop. Eric doesn’t hesitate before he steps in to wrap Dele in a hug, warm and long and lingering, till he can feel some of the heaviness of the evening melt away from Dele. 

Dele doesn’t pull away till Eric does, and Eric stays close, giving him a kind smile and asking when he’s seeing him again this week.

“I can come over this weekend,” Dele mumbles, shrugging. “I have Sunday off.” 

“I’ll cook you dinner,” Eric offers, and Dele nods. They’re still close, so close, looking into each other’s eyes, and Eric’s heart aches with something unplaceable. It’s only the sound of the traffic rolling in that distracts the both of them; Dele eyes his bus stop, and takes an unwilling step back. “I got to get this one,” he says, and Eric nods. 

“See you soon, Delboy,” he says, and when Dele turns back and smiles, Eric can tell it’s genuine. 

  
  


Eric gets his sister’s roast chicken recipe, thinking Dele will like it, and starts cooking in the afternoon, the summer sun beating in through his kitchen window as he marinades the chicken with garlic and butter and rosemary and thyme. He puts the radio on and opens a bottle of wine, sipping it while listening to the BBC and waiting for the oven to warm up. 

He checks his phone to see when Dele’s arriving and spots his chat with Trent, the last message from him midweek, still unreplied to. _ Don’t be that guy_, his sister said, and Eric sighs, opening it up and typing a quick message.

_ How about next weekend for Liverpool? _ he says, and, _ I’ve looked up the trains, think I can try and get there for noon? _

He sets the phone aside after he’s sent the message. The doorbell buzzes not longer after, and Eric smiles when he opens the door to Dele, and even wider when Dele’s hug is firm and tight.

“You smell of onions,” Dele says, when he pulls away.

“They’re shallots, actually,” Eric says, and puts a hand on Dele’s back, guiding him into the kitchen. “I’m making you chicken the way my sister makes it. I think you’ll like it.”

Dele sniffs the air, the aroma of crispy chicken infusing the kitchen, and bends down to peek into Eric’s oven. 

“Oi- don’t open it,” Eric says, and Dele laughs.

“I’m excited. Only because it’s her recipe. I don’t trust your skills,” he says, and pokes Eric. Eric catches his hand, pushing him away, and shakes his head, grinning too. “Only your sister’s. She’s my favourite Dier.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Eric leans in, looking mock furtive. “Mine too.”

Dele makes a little shocked face at him. “Are you allowed to have favourites?” he says, and Eric presses a finger to his lips, bending down to take his chicken out of the oven. 

“Don’t tell them.” 

“I’m going to message them right now,” Dele says, taking out his phone. “Or better yet. Tell them in person. When I meet all of them.” 

“When you meet all of them,” Eric says, smiling. He straightens up, sticking a meat thermometer into the chicken and frowning as he tries to make out the temperature. “I’ll take you to Lisbon one day, you know,” he says, still looking at his roast, but when he looks up at Dele, Dele’s smiling.

They settle on the couch after they’re stuffed full of food, with glasses of wine and Come Dine With Me on the telly. Eric throws a blanket around the two of them, the apartment chilly with an unexpected June storm, and Dele makes himself comfortable in Eric’s space.

“So how is everything?” Eric asks, when the show goes into the adverts. He looks at Dele, and Dele shrugs. “You know. Sleep. Life. Gigs. Work.” 

“Work,” Dele snorts, “Fucking great. Getting shouted at by my manager for being two minutes late and also by middle-aged mums because the trainers they want for their kids ain’t in stock and apparently it won’t do to get it in another colour.” 

Eric makes a sympathetic face, and ruffles Dele’s hair. Dele ducks out from under it, frowning, and Eric says, “Is it an option to look for somewhere else?” 

Dele shrugs, and Eric is quiet before he asks. “Where would you like to work?” and Dele looks up at him. “If you could,” Eric says, and shrugs. “Dunno. Ideally. If you could work somewhere else.”

“Don’t laugh,” Dele says, eyeing Eric warily. Eric confirms he won’t, looking serious, and Dele shrugs. “Dunno, like, fashion or something.

“I can’t really design or nothing, I just want to be in the industry. Doing something. Like working at a showroom, at Amiri or Gucci or something. Or even a big flagship sports shop somewhere.” 

“Yeah? Can’t you? That sounds like a nice idea,” Eric says, and frowns when Dele shakes his head. “You’ve got experience, haven’t you, as a salesperson, and you clearly know a lot more about fashion than I do.”

“That ain’t hard,” Dele mumbles, lips twitching up a little bit when Eric laughs. “Dunno, like, loads of people want jobs like that don’t they? They’re really hard to get.”

“You can keep an eye out. Throw some feelers out, maybe apply at a couple of places, you know?” 

“I just don’t get them,” Dele says, and then adds, mumbling so quiet Eric can barely make it out, “People without criminal records get them.” 

It takes Eric a second to take that in, but Dele looks up at him, expression open, at the edge of defiance and worry, and Eric hastens to speak, keeping his voice gentle and neutral. “People with criminal records can still get jobs.”

“Nah, it’s not like I can’t get a job,” Dele shakes his head. “It’s just that you only get the shit ones. That need to lower their standards. LV ain’t exactly going for someone who’s got done for carrying.” 

Eric catches himself before he can ask _ carrying what _, and rearranges his face quickly when he catches Dele studying it, watchful. 

“How long has it been?” He asks, and Dele says his record has been clean for a couple of years now. “See,” Eric says, encouraging, “Surely that counts. Surely they can see the improvement.” 

When Dele stays quiet, Eric apologises, quiet too. “Sorry, I don’t actually know a lot about this stuff,” he says, and touches Dele’s back, lightly. “I just want you to be able to do something you like.” 

To his surprise, Dele leans into him, and it reminds him of the night when he asked about Dele’s family. Dele tips his head onto Eric’s shoulder, and Eric dares to hold him closer, fingers gently scratching his hair. 

“We don’t have to keep talking about it,” Eric mumbles, and Dele leans in a little more. “I just don’t like seeing you unhappy. Sorry I go into fixing-it mode.”

“It’s ok,” Dele mumbles, after what seems like ages. “Sorry I’m not very good at fixing.” 

“I’m not either,” Eric says, and he nudges Dele. Dele turns and pushes his face into Eric’s shoulder, and Eric has to strain to listen when he speaks against Eric’s jumper.

“Sorry?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot for having a record?” Dele mumbles, and extracts his face from Eric’s chest. He’s looking a little red, with that wobbly expression caught between defiance and worry. He seems to catch himself though, and shakes his head, lifting his his chin up and shrugging. “I mean, can a lawyer even be friends with a criminal?” he says, and straightens himself up a little. “Legally speaking.”

“Legally speaking,” Eric agrees, and gives Dele a smile. “Dunno, Del, I thought everything you did was above board. Are you telling me weed isn’t legal?” 

Eric’s pleased when that makes Dele laugh, and continues. “You know like, none of this stuff makes a difference to me right? We’ve all done stupid shit when we were younger.”

Dele snorts, and pulls away from Eric. “What have you done, drunk a shandy when you were fifteen?”

“Hey,” Eric says, with a grin. “Have you forgotten the curtains already?” 

“True,” Dele says, and looks at Eric. “You should have done community service for them.” Dele reaches out to touch his hair, and Eric ducks his head slightly to give him better access. Dele gently rubs the soft fuzz on Eric’s head, and tells him, “Even this is better. Even if it shows what a weird shape your head is.”

“You’re so mean,” Eric says, pulling away with a laugh.

“I’m just telling you in case nobody told you that. Just in case you didn’t know, and so you kept shaving it forever.”

“At least my hairline isn’t receding at twenty,” Eric replies, and it draws instant outrage from Dele, frowning and pushing Eric away. 

“I’m just telling you in case nobody told you that. Just in case you didn’t know, and you went bald at my age.” 

Dele folds his arms and pouts, withdrawing to the other end of the couch and facing his entire body away from Eric. Eric reaches over, tugging at him and apologising profusely, working hard to suppress his laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he coos. “Your hair is so beautiful Dele, it’s so perfect,” he says, and succeeds in wrapping his arms around Dele, nearly toppling him backwards. “What’s your secret?” he says, and Dele scowls. Eric rearranges them, so Dele’s lying against him, secure in Eric’s hold, two lanky boys awkwardly stretched out on the couch. “How do you achieve such tasteful hair loss?” 

It takes all of Eric’s strength to keep Dele where he is, Dele trying to wrestle Eric off of him and berating him copiously. Eric wheezes between his laughter when Dele elbows his chest, telling Dele, “Ouch, hey, play _ fair _\--” and somehow they end up tangled even further together on the couch, both red faced and panting, and all too close again. Dele’s face is right by Eric’s, and Eric tries not to focus on his lips. They both quieten, the laughter dying out, so the only sound in the room is them catching their breath. Eric’s eyes meet Dele’s, and he’s well aware of how hot he feels all of a sudden. 

Dele looks caught, eyeing Eric uncertainly, and Eric swallows. The tension between them is palpable, and Eric’s hand jerks, like he doesn’t know where to put it. It’s been less than two months since he last kissed Dele, and Eric thinks he can still remember how it feels, wondering if Dele can too. He parts his lips, not sure if it’s to ask Dele if he remembered, or to just lean in and do it, when Dele clears his throat.

“Uh -- lost my train of thought,” Dele says, and shakes his head. “Where were we?” 

Eric pushes away the disappointment, and gives Dele a quick smile. “You were insulting my hair, I think, telling me off for cutting it so short.” 

“Oh right,” Dele says, and he still sounds a bit distracted. “I um--,” he starts, then shakes his head with a laugh. “I used to have my hair shorter too, you know,” Dele says. 

“Can I see? Do you have pictures?”

Dele reaches into his pockets, pulling away even further in the process, and Eric feels bereft. Dele scrolls through his instagram to get to a couple of years ago. It’s a photo of Dele and a few friends at the football, in MK Dons gear, one of them with their arm around Dele, who looks skinnier and smaller, short hair and making a face for the camera. Eric smiles, and turns to Dele, fuller and taller, and still making a face, and can’t help but ruffle his hair. 

“Is this when you lived in MK? Were these your mates?” Eric asks, and Dele nods, telling Eric these were his friends from back home. “Do you still keep in touch with them?” 

“Not really,” Dele says, closing the photo and pocketing his phone. “We stopped being in touch after I left. Dunno,” he says, and he hesitates. “Some of them are inside now, anyway.” 

“In jail?” Eric says, taking a moment. 

“Yeah,” Dele says and averts his gaze. “If I stayed I would probably be...” Dele shrugs. “I dunno. The same, I guess. You know.” 

They both fall quiet at that, but Eric puts an arm around Dele. “Well,” he says, looking over at Dele. “I’m glad you’re not in jail somewhere,” and nudges Dele. “If you were, how could I have met you?” 

“Maybe you could have been my lawyer,” Dele says, and gives Eric a tiny smile, which Eric takes in with triumph. 

“Your lawyer,” he says softly, and squeezes Dele’s shoulder. “I’d be hopeless though. I wasn’t any good in our criminal law module. What if I couldn’t get you out, and you’d resent me forever?”

“God, you’re useless,” Dele grumbles, and Eric laughs, loudly. Dele shakes his head, and rests his head on Eric’s shoulder again, easier and more confident in it this time, tucking himself into Eric’s cuddle with an ease Eric’s not felt often from him.

“That’s why I moved in with him, you know,” Dele says, after a beat. “With Che. In London. He just cared,” Dele says quietly, and Eric thinks about when they were sat on this same bed in January and Dele changed the subject when they talked about his family. 

“Nobody else cared before. I’m not some weirdo who’s just obsessed with my ex.” Dele lifts his head up from Eric’s shoulder, and Eric meets his eyes again. “He was the only one who cared.”. 

“I care,” Eric says, quietly. Dele keeps his gaze steady on Eric, and Eric feels like his body is moving on automatic, turning slightly towards Dele and putting a hand on his cheek, as gentle a touch as he can. “I care now too.” 

“Yeah?” Dele swallows, and this time Eric doesn’t hesitate. He holds Dele’s cheek, firmer now, and leans in, feeling the soft press of Dele’s lips against his own.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're wondering who the new guy is, guys, you just have to be introduced to Che Wolton Grant, aka [AJ Tracey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rft25dmCa8Y). He's a grime artist, [die hard Spurs fan](https://www.tottenhamhotspur.com/news-archive-1/my-team-forever-aj-tracey-on-spurs/) and [undeniably](https://twitter.com/ajtracey/status/794283409828876289) [in](https://www.complex.com/pigeons-and-planes/2019/02/aj-tracey-debut-album-interview) [love](https://twitter.com/ajtracey/status/1113549285780541440) with Dele and even wrote a wierd little [freestyle](https://www.reddit.com/r/grime/comments/77zvjl/aj_tracey_dele_alli/) about him. He [insists](https://www.soccerbible.com/interviews/2017/09/from-the-mag-issue-9-aj-tracey/) Dele is his friend but Dele only [sometimes](https://versus.uk.com/2017/08/playlist-dele-alli/) acknowledges his existence; it's the greatest unrequited love story of our time, second only to the tragic mess that is current Eric and Dele (don't even speak to me right now about them and their current canonical Issues). 
> 
> Anyway, we need more grime/football and grime AUs generally guys, come on.
> 
> If you made it to the end of this self indulgent hot mess, I truly love you. Leave me a comment so I can tell you just how much.


End file.
